Lighthouses

"I can think of no other edifice constructed by man as altruistic as a lighthouse. They were built only to serve."  George Bernard Shaw

Why I love lighthouses

There has always been something about lighthouses that draws me in. They carry the weight of history, standing through storms, wars, changing coastlines and countless human stories. Each one has watched generations come and go, quietly fulfilling the purpose for which it was built. They are monuments not to power or glory, but to service.

Perhaps that is why they feel so deeply symbolic. A lighthouse does not force its light on anyone; it simply shines, offering guidance to those who choose to navigate by it. There is something profoundly beautiful in that image. And then there is their sheer visual presence. Perched on rugged cliffs, lonely islands or windswept headlands, they are among the most photogenic structures ever created—where engineering, landscape, history and metaphor come together in a way that never fails to stir my imagination.

Map of lighthouses I've photographed

All posts tagged "lighthouse"

• All

Sydney

• Barrenjoey Lighthouse  (Palm Beach)
• Hornsby Lighthouse (Watsons Bay)
• Macquarie Lighthouse  (Watsons Bay)
• Maritime Museum  (Pyrmont)
• Bradleys Head
• Cremorne Point

Australia wide

• Kiama
• Freycinet
• Point Perpendicular
• Great Ocean Road
• Nobby Lighthouse  (Newcastle)

Cape Town

• Cape Point
• Green Point
• Kalk Bay

South Africa wide

• Port St Johns

⬇︎ Keep scrolling for all posts tagged as “Lighthouses”

Memorable moments: The pot plant contingency

When I was in my early twenties, I went to see the doctor. I can't recall the exact reason for the visit, but at one point, he decided he needed a urine sample.

"Oh dear," I said, wincing. "I actually just went to the loo right before I came in."

"Not to worry," he replied smoothly. "I only need a tiny drop."

He handed me a small plastic container, gestured to the room, and stepped outside to give me some privacy.

I positioned the bottle and began, pleasantly surprised and relieved that my body was cooperating enough to squeeze out a modest sample. But then, to my great surprise, the flow didn't taper off. In fact, it gathered momentum.

I watched in mounting panic as the fluid reached a quarter full... then half full... then three-quarters full—and I was still going at full throttle.

Oh no, I thought, a wave of sheer desperation hitting me. The bottle isn't big enough! What on earth am I going to do?!

Panic-driven calculations raced through my mind. Stepping out into the packed waiting room mid-stream was obviously out of the question. I scanned the small consultation room with wide, manic eyes. My gaze darted to a potted plant in the corner—could I get away with watering the Ficus? Then I looked at the window—could I somehow crack it open and aim for the flowerbed outside without the passersby noticing?

Just as I was on the absolute brink of making a terrible, life-altering decision, the tide miraculously turned. The flow sputtered and stopped, leaving the urine exactly one inch from the absolute brim.

A moment later, the doctor walked back in. He took one look at the sloshing, overflowing vessel handed to him by the young man who five minutes earlier insisted his tank was completely empty, and stood there in silent, utter astonishment.

Why I Love Christopher Nolan

I’ve just come home from seeing The Odyssey, and once again I was reminded why Christopher Nolan is my favourite filmmaker working today. Every time I walk out of one of his films, I feel like I've experienced something rather than simply watched it. His movies linger. They invite reflection. They make me want to see them again—not just to catch what I missed, but because they continue unfolding long after the credits roll.

Part of his genius lies in the remarkable creative team he has built around him. He has worked alongside his wife and producer, Emma Thomas, since the very beginning, and his brother Jonathan has been instrumental in shaping many of his greatest stories. More recently, editor Jennifer Lame has brought extraordinary rhythm and emotional precision to his films. It's a reminder that while Nolan is a visionary, great art is often born from enduring creative partnerships.

Then there are the stories themselves. Nobody constructs a narrative quite like Nolan. The Prestige remains, in my view, one of the greatest screenplays ever written, with not one but two breathtaking twists that completely transform everything that came before. Memento turned storytelling inside out, allowing us to experience memory loss rather than simply observe it. Interstellar somehow combines hard science, breathtaking spectacle and one of the most moving father-daughter stories ever put on screen. And the ending of Inception—that spinning top—may be the perfect ending because it leaves us wrestling with a deeper question than whether Cobb is dreaming: what is reality, and does our experience of it ultimately matter more than certainty?

But what elevates Nolan above almost every other blockbuster director is that he's never really making films about explosions, spies, superheroes or space travel. Those are simply the vehicles. Beneath them lie profound existential questions. What is time? What is identity? How much of who we are is memory? Can love transcend space and time? What is sacrifice? How should we live when faced with uncertainty? He trusts his audience to engage with these questions rather than reducing them to simple answers.

Perhaps that's why his films resonate with me so deeply. They embody what I believe great art should do. Great art doesn't merely entertain—it expands consciousness. It stretches the imagination, deepens our perception, and leaves us seeing ourselves and reality a little differently than before.

After The Odyssey, I'm more convinced than ever that Christopher Nolan isn't just one of the great filmmakers of our time. He's one of the great storytellers. And in a culture that often underestimates the power of story, that's a rare and precious gift.

Memorable moments: From Party Animal to Grumpy Old Man

Mackie, my beautiful Jack Russell, underwent a profound shift in his relationship with the younger generation as he aged.

When he was in his prime, he loved kids with all his heart. I have vivid memories of taking him to my friend Andreas's house for his young son Lucas’s birthday party. Mackie was the undisputed life and soul of the event. The kids had endless fun throwing a tennis ball for him, and Mackie had the time of his life chasing it down and bringing it back, completely tireless.

Then, around the ripe old age of sixteen, a switch flipped. Mackie officially retired from his role as party entertainer and decided he was completely over youngsters—whether they were energetic human children or overeager puppies.

At the park, if a young whippersnapper of a dog bounced up to say hello, Mackie would let out a low growl and occasionally even snap to enforce his personal space. He took the exact same stance with children. This posed a bit of a diplomatic challenge, because even in his twilight years, Mackie looked utterly adorable, and kids would naturally wander over wanting to pet him. I constantly had to intervene and explain that the cute little dog had grown very grumpy in his old age.

My daily routine involved walking Mackie and sometimes tethering him outside the local shop for five minutes while I popped in for a few items.

One afternoon, standing near the back of the store, I glanced toward the front entrance to check on him. To my horror, I saw a small child stepping toward Mackie, arm already outstretched to give him a pat.

It instantly became one of those ultra-slow-motion action movie sequences. In my head, a deep "NOOOOO!" echoed as I lunged toward the doorway, desperate to prevent a nipping incident before it was too late.

Thankfully, Mackie merely let out a stern, warning growl rather than a bite, and the child pulled back safely. But that was the end of his solo waiting privileges outside the shop.

Grumpy or not, I adored Mackie in every single one of his moods. After all, when you are pushing close to a hundred in human years, you’ve earned the absolute right to assert your seniority and tell the young whippersnappers to get off your lawn.

Memorable moments: A seasoned disappointment

I will never forget the first big raffle I ever won. It was at a massive event—I can't recall the exact occasion now—and anticipation in the room was running high. There were two major prizes up for grabs.

The ticket for the first prize was drawn, and a woman was called up to the stage to collect her reward: an all-expenses-paid trip to Italy. It was a magnificent, dream-of-a-lifetime prize, and the crowd applauded wildly as she went up to accept it.

Then came the moment for the second prize. The host read out the ticket number, and to my absolute shock, it was me! I am normally the kind of person who never wins anything, so I was surprised and thoroughly delighted. As I walked down the aisle toward the stage, my mind was racing with possibilities, wondering what exotic corner of the globe I was about to be whisked away to.

I stepped onto the stage, smiled, and was promptly handed... a large, heavy black bag filled to the brim with something bulky.

What on earth have I won? I thought, holding the sack. A bag of refuse?

I peeked inside, and the reality set in: it was packed to the top with spices. A lifetime supply of culinary seasonings.

Now, a professional chef might have been overjoyed with such a bounty, but I don't cook. The transition from imagining a romantic getaway in Tuscany to holding ten kilograms of ground coriander was an utter, hilarious disappointment.

Needless to say, those spices lasted me for a very long time. In fact, over twenty years later, I have a strong suspicion that a few forgotten jars from that faithful night are still quietly lurking in the dark recesses of my spice drawer.

Memorable moments: The sonic wake-up call

I have a rather unfortunate physiological quirk that causes me profound embarrassment every now and then.

It usually happens when I’m commuting on a quiet train or settled into a long-haul flight. The soothing rhythm of the travel lulls me, my eyes grow heavy, and I start to feel tired. My head slowly sinks down toward my chest, and I momentarily doze off into a peaceful, blissful sleep.

Then, without a single second of warning, my airway collapses and I let out the loudest snort imaginable—a real ripper from deep within the nasal passages, sounding remarkably like a walrus in heat.

The violent sonic boom of my own body shoots me instantly back to full consciousness. My head snaps up, my eyes fly open, and I am immediately met with the horror of thirty fellow passengers who have all turned in their seats to identify the source of the mighty blast.

Thankfully this doesn't happen too often, but when it does, I want to be swallowed up by the floorboards. My only survival strategy is to instantly join the rest of the carriage in looking around with an expression of deep, horrified disgust, silently asking the crowd, "Can you believe the nerve of whoever just did that?!"

Pyrmont

Lovely to explore Pyrmont with my Photography Meetup on a beautiful winter's day. 

Memorable moments: The British Pub Test

My friend Gavin comes from the UK, and during his younger days, he and his mates used to partake in some wild and rather disturbing pub games. One of their absolute favorites was an incredibly bizarre tradition known simply as "cock or ball."

After several pints of beer had been consumed, the game would begin. One of the lads would carefully pull a tiny, isolated piece of skin through the zipper of their trousers—sourced from either the shaft or the testicles. The remaining players then had to examine the exposed sample and make their official deduction.

Apparently, differentiating between the two under dim pub lighting is a lot harder than you might think. Whoever guessed incorrectly was penalized and had to down their drink. For Gavin and his crew, this high-stakes anatomical guessing game caused a great deal of mirth and became a staple of their nights out.

While it certainly makes for a memorable story, I am incredibly glad Gavin has long since moved on from his wilder days. It is definitely not a game I would relish participating in. When I go out for a pint, I prefer to keep my private life completely private, leaving my anatomy safely tucked away exactly where it belongs.

Memorable moments: The existential check-in

James was a wonderful hiking friend who joined us on several of our trail outings before he eventually moved back to New Zealand. He is a profoundly thoughtful chap with a deep interest in existential issues, so I always felt a strong intellectual resonance with him. He also happened to have a highly unusual hobby: several times a week, he would sit inside his broom cupboard, take a heroic dose of magic mushrooms, and attempt to tap directly into the fabric of the universe.

One night, fresh off a session in the cupboard, James came to meet Gavin, me, and a few mates at the local pub.

When he walked in, he greeted us normally but looked a little preoccupied. As the rest of the table fell into our usual loud banter and storytelling, James sat quietly, not saying much of anything, just observing the scene with a distant look in his eye.

Then, during a brief lull in the conversation, he suddenly leaned across the table toward Gavin and me. Lowering his voice to a hushed breath, he asked with total seriousness, "Guys... am I actually here?"

It became instantly clear what was happening. The dose had been so intense that he was struck by the disturbing thought that he was still sitting alone in the dark among the mops and buckets, entirely hallucinating the pub, the pints, and his friends.

Gavin and I quickly reassured him that he was, in fact, physically sitting in the pub with us. A look of great relief washed over his face, and he slowly settled back into his chair. I have never taken mushrooms myself, and listening to a grown man ask his mates for structural confirmation of his own physical existence convinced me right then and there that I probably never would.

Malabar Headland

I was hoping to see the Peregrine Falcon that lives here but I saw Nankeen Kestrel instead. The scenery around the Malabar Headland is spectacular.