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Up at 4 am to get to Dunraven Bay for sunrise. I wasn't overly hopeful for anything amazing, as unfortunately this time of year, the sun rises over the land rather than the sea so the effect isn't as good, but it's always a wasted opportunity not to get out at sunrise when on the coast, so out I was.

As I got set up, the pre-dawn light started to make itself apparent as the clouds began to garner a pinkish hue, so I took a couple of shots and waited for something to happen, and happen it did. A great big dark, grey whopper of a cloud showed up like a screaming child at a restaurant and killed any chance of a colourful atmosphere that there might have been.

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I was travelling down to South Wales to help out on a photography workshop, and as usual I was running late. I had hoped to get a bit of photography done of my own in Waterfall Country, that area of the Brecon Beacons that is home to so many beautiful Welsh falls, before making my way down to the coast to meet up with the group that evening.

By the time I arrived at Pontneddfechan, the small village that is the de facto starting point for all things watery and falling, it was already mid afternoon, and thanks to the fact it was a glorious day, there were people everywhere. I had planned to visit Sgwd Gwladys, or Lady Falls first of all, but considering the amount of bodies about, I figured my chances of getting a decent photo to be unlikely. I would have to find another spot.

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It was high time to get some sunrise images of my local area, as I hadn't been out for a while, mainly because sunrise is about 5 am at this time of year, and frankly I just couldn't drag myself out of bed in time. It's one thing to be on location and know that you only have a few days to get the shots you want, but quite another when you're at home and you know there will always be tomorrow...

So after some determined effort to get up and about, I found myself down on the banks of the River Windrush at 4.30 in the morning, I followed its path as it languidly snakes its way from Burford towards Swinbrook on the look out for a suitable spot to watch the sun appear.

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A few days ago I took a trip to the striking Chesterton Windmill in Wiltshire.

Not only is the windmill impressive in it's own right, but it had been years since the surrounding fields were planted with rapeseed, so I couldn't pass up the opportunity to get a few shots of this unique Grade I listed building on such a beautiful day.

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I recently visited the White Horse at Uffington, a particularly historic landscape located in the picturesque Oxfordshire countryside, and not somewhere I'd been for a while, despite it being only about 30 minutes away. It was high time for another visit, and on such a beautiful day, it would have been rude not to.

The internationally-renowned Bronze-Age Uffington White Horse can be seen for miles away leaping across the head of a dramatic dry valley in the Ridgeway escarpment. The Uffington horse is by far the oldest of the white horse figures in Britain, and is of an entirely different design from the others white horses that dot the country.

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Last week I paid a visit to West Woods, just outside Marlborough, for a spot of bluebell photography, as it's about that time of year when they are looking their best. West Woods is a plantation of beech trees on a former ancient woodland site, managed by the Forestry Commission.

Until around 1300 West Woods was part of Savernake Forest, but now, along with Savernake and Collingbourne Woods, form Marlborough Woodland. West Woods is one-fifth of the size of Savernake Forest, and was clear-felled in 1928, leaving only a few Ancient and Veteran trees on the outskirts. It was replanted with mainly Beech, with some Birch, Pine Sycamore and Ash.

Thankfully there are spots here and there that have been well managed, with fallen and cut branches piled up out the way, leaving some lovely clear glades of bluebells, with none of the detritus that often spoils the view, so it was an ideal spot for some bluebell photography.

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I motored over to Saltwick Bay for sunrise with a song in my heart and woolly hat on my head, as I wanted to get an early morning shot of that most ubiquitous of views from this part of the country, the Admiral Von Tromp.

In October of 1976, this fishing trawler ended up on the fearsome rocks of Saltwick Bay and came to a rather sticky end. Why it came aground is still a mystery, the only person who could say, was one of two crew members killed that day, and the only one at the wheel. Despite modern navigational equipment it ended up 90 degrees west of its course, with the subsequent investigation stating that even if the boat had been left to drift, it wouldn’t have been on such a heading, it had been, either through error, or worse, deliberately sailing in that direction.

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In the pre-dawn darkness I was driving north to Staithes, a perfect little fishing village perched on the coastline that curves around the headland and along the banks of the Roxby Beck, which sounds like a groovy swinger from the 70’s, but is in fact a stream that runs through the village and out to sea. I drove past the turn to the village and carried on a few hundred yards up the road, taking the little lane to Cowbar, a tiny village that sits high above Staithes and the river below.

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I drove over to Sandsend first thing, in preparation for sunrise and a bit of early morning groyne action. Setting up shop on the beach, I kept a wary eye on the dawn tide while it approached with some speed, as it is wont to do along this stretch of coast. There was a smudge of colour on the horizon and I took a few long exposure shots to smooth out the ocean, and make the most of what colour there was.

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I took a trip over to the Ditchley estate near Charlbury at the weekend, as there were quite an expanse of rape fields in full bloom and it would have been a shame to let them go to waste. The weather was a bit changeable, with the forecast to be quite stormy that evening, so I thought it might produce a dramatic sky for sunset.

As it turned out, the sky did produce a bit of interest, but it completely clouded over and was tipping it down with rain before it got to the end of the day. Still, I managed to get a few images, and the estate is a nice place to be, it’s very quiet and off the beaten track, you rarely see another person about. Perfect for a bit of contemplation on the spring landscape...

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Strolling down to Whitby harbour at 5.30 that morning, I was hoping for at least a blush of sunrise colour for my effort. The ocean on my left, and far below, as I walked along West Cliff in the cool pre-dawn air, seemed to have the consistency of molten lead, occasional, dull highlights fleetingly glimpsed and completely silent. In fact it seemed as if the whole town were hushed, the sound of my feet hitting the pavement the only thing disturbing the peace.

Once I had reached the end of West Cliff and descended the steps to sea level, I made my way along the outer reaches of the harbour towards the pier, just as the sky was beginning to come to life with dawn light. I walked onto the West Pier and saw that while the sky looked promising, with a smattering of clouds above, the horizon was out to possibly spoil things, with a thick bank of cloud reclining across the horizon in a disappointing ribbon.

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Arriving in Whitby, located on the North Yorkshire coast, I was looking forward to a few days of photography along this scenic stretch of coastline. I had visited Yorkshire several times before, but due to its massive size, it’s by far the biggest county in Britain, I hadn’t reached the North York Moors and accompanying shoreline before.

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Sunrise on the Sunday morning wasn’t much to write home about, mainly because I’d forgotten to set my alarm, so I slept through the whole thing. This annoyed me somewhat, until I looked out the window and saw the glowering clouds and dismal, hazy drizzle that peppered the window.

So, pleased I hadn’t missed much, I got my stuff together and headed out to Swanage seafront in case things brightened up a bit, plus I was up, so I felt as if I should do something. Apart from a couple of dog walkers I had the beach to myself at such an early hour, so I wandered along the blustery shore looking for something to catch my eye, and waited for the soupy spray to abate.

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After leaving the golden view at Corfe Castle, I was soon parked up above the windswept shores at Kimmeridge Bay. The clouds by now had started to gather, like a gang of wayward youths on the lookout for mischief, but there were still a few rays of light making their way through the growing mob, sparkling off the rippling ocean below and highlighting sections of the rocky shore.

I was certainly pleased to see a bit of sunlight still around, but I was over the moon to see that the tide was out. At high tide Kimmeridge is, despite its rich geological pedigree, a bit dull, but at low tide things liven up considerably.

With the tide is out, the Kimmeridge ledges are exposed, these long fingers of limestone rock, which were formed many millions of years ago, when the Jurassic sea was a lot deeper than it is now, stretch out into the sea and provide a nice bit of interest to any photo. They also contain a fair number of fossils, signifying the explosion of life that the Jurassic period unleashed, which is never a bad thing.

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I had arrived upon the Jurassic coast of Dorset, Swanage to be exact, the day before, hoping to get a few pictures from this most picturesque of places, and hoping even more, that the weather was going to be kind to me this time, as most of my previous visits had been affected by somewhat gloomy conditions.

That evening it looked like the weather was intent on serving up more of the same, presenting a grey, soupy sky for the main, with a sharp, blustery wind on the side. But there was no point in sitting around, so I headed over to Corfe Castle to see what, if anything, I could see.

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While I was over at my favourite place on the River Windrush for a sunset shoot not so long ago, and it occurred to me it might be interesting to see a collection of my images taken over the past year or so, gathered together in one place, to see how the seasonal tides shape the landscape around this small river.

So that is what I did, and here are selection of my favourites, mainly taken at sunrise or sunset, when the best light is to be had. Even though they were captured within a couple of hundred yards of each other, along the same stretch of peaceful water, the diverse qualities of the light, and the time of year they were taken, makes each image different.

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I hadn’t used my light tent for a little while, so the other afternoon I thought it would be a good idea to give it some air, carry out a bit of macro flower photography, and put together a quick tutorial on the subject while I was at it.

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A couple of weeks ago I paid a visit to the lovely Cotswold village of Shipton-under-Wychwood, a place that takes part of its name, along with a couple of other nearby villages, from the ancient forest of Wychwood.

In past centuries this forest sprawled across a large area of rural Oxfordshire, at its height in the 12th century, the forest covered some 50,000 acres. It is of course now a shadow of its former self, and since it was enclosed in 1887, 870 hectares is all that remains of the woodland that was once home to forest fairs so riotous they were eventually banned.

I was in Shipton though, not to visit the forest, as it doesn’t exist around that area anymore, but to spend some time in the Wychwood Wild Garden, while there was still some autumn colour about.

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For my last sunrise location of the trip, I took an early morning drive over to Dunstan Heads, to get another view of the magnificent ruins of Dunstanburgh Castle. Once I had arrived on the coast, it was a 20 minute walk over the neighbouring golf course, which thankfully at this time of the morning was deserted, to get to the dramatic coastline.

The ocean shore along this stretch of remote headland is strewn with large, weathered boulders, worn smooth from the constant pounding of the relentless surf and battering winds.

I picked my way carefully over the slippery rocks, looking for a spot to set up in preparation for the rising sun. Once I had scouted around a bit, and duly admired my impressive surroundings, it became fairly clear that should the sun decide to rise, and I saw no reason it shouldn’t, I probably wouldn’t be witness to it.

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Out for sunrise at Bambrugh again and the conditions for photography were a lot more promising than the morning before. There was very little cloud in the sky apart from a gossamer ribbon lying across the horizon, ready and willing to be illuminated beautifully by the rising sun.

I got a few shots of the castle with some grass covered dunes in the foreground, their lush thatches trembling and shuddering under the whims of the boisterous breeze. All too quickly though the sun ascended the cloud bank, its glaring rays penetrating directly into the lens, which made continuing to photograph towards the castle a tough job.

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