Last year, I went to RSPB Bempton Cliffs for the third time.
It’s a place I genuinely love — dramatic, exposed, and full of life — and I’d built the day up in my head. I was expecting one of those visits where everything clicks. Instead, it was hot, completely unsheltered, and physically hard work. My camera gear felt heavier with every step, the pain in my hip was relentless, and I left the main area sore, exhausted, and quietly disappointed.
Sometimes photography days are like that. You do everything “right” and still come away with very little to show for it.
I could have gone straight back to the caravan park.
Instead, I decided to change tack. I headed off to explore somewhere else nearby — partly for lunch, partly just to reset. I took some of my camera gear with me, but not all of it. This wasn’t meant to be a proper, intentional shoot. Just a pause.
That’s how I ended up at North Landing, Flamborough.
The path down is steep — there’s no pretending otherwise — so I took it slowly, ordered lunch, and sat for a bit. And as I always do, I paid attention to what was going on around me.
That’s when I heard it.
A sound that stopped me mid-thought: the unmistakable noise of hungry swallow chicks in a nest.
The noise was coming from above The Boathouse, which is a great little place to eat and absolutely worth the slope if you can manage it. The chicks were relentless — a constant, chaotic chorus that kicked off every time the adult bird came back with food.
I grabbed my superzoom and spotted them tucked into their nest — beaks wide open, necks stretched, all urgency and no subtlety.
I took the shots almost automatically. No overthinking. Just reacting.
And just like that, the day changed.
I was grinning like an idiot and pointing them out to anyone nearby who looked vaguely interested.
I stayed a while longer and noticed things I would have walked straight past earlier. An old, decaying fishing boat beside the path down to the cliffs. Weathered, falling apart, and somehow still worth photographing. I took a few shots — not because I felt I should, but because I wanted to.
Out at sea, I even spotted dolphins. Too far away to photograph properly, but close enough to recognise. That felt like a bonus rather than a frustration.
By the time I started back up the path, the weather turned. Proper rain. The kind that soaks you through in minutes. I was drenched, laughing, hair plastered to my face.
And honestly, I didn’t care.
What stuck with me wasn’t the disappointment of the morning or the physical effort. It was the reminder that photography doesn’t always reward the plan you make for it.
Sometimes the best moments happen when:
- the plan doesn’t work
- you carry less
- you slow down
- you pay attention
That day didn’t give me what I went looking for.
It gave me something better.
