West Cornwall’s rugged coastline, mercilessly ravaged by the Atlantic’s awesome power, is a photographer’s dream.  Rocky coves nestle beneath towering granite cliffs, providing scarce shelter from the almost unceasing winds.  Long, sandy beaches entice, leading to azure waters that become mighty, terrifying cauldrons as the swells deepen, braved only by fearless, neoprene-clad surfers.

We have been visiting the far south west of Cornwall for years; it is rich with family memories and the stark contrast to our Fenland home ensured it was a place we could visit to truly unplug.  It was the last place we were in during 2020 before the lockdowns forced us back to East Anglia, and it was the first place we visited the second (literally!) that travel restrictions were lifted over a year later. 

Porthcurno beach is a hotspot during the day, its sheltered sands sitting beneath the Minack Theatre, which clings to the cliffs above, drawing performers and audiences from around the world.  But Porthcurno has a much grittier story, betrayed by the concrete pillboxes stationed intimidatingly above the beach on all sides.  During the second world war, Porthcurno was home to a critical communications hub, with subsea cables laid beneath the beach to form the first trans-Atlantic telegraph system, a vital link between Britain and its allies that ultimately shaped the outcome of the war.  To protect the cables and the bunker-like buildings where they terminated and their top-secret messages were de-coded, the beach was heavily fortified, criss-crossed with barbed wire barricades and surrounded by machine gun posts and flame throwers. 

The flat roof of the pillbox above the western side of the beach offers an exceptional, if nerve-wracking, vantage point of the beach and the more distant, jagged lines of Logan’s Rock just beyond.  As I clambered onto the small concrete slab in the small hours of that April night, the wind howled, cutting through my inadequate clothing and making me very conscious of the sheer drop that was just a couple of feet from where I was standing.  With gratitude and sadness, I thought about the frightened young sentries who would have endured those tense, lonely nights, tortured by the mischievous shifting shadows in the cold, dark waters below.  But as I looked out to sea, I saw the unmistakable mottled mistiness of the Milky Way core rising against the inky backdrop to the south east.  Its familiar glow comforted me, and seemed to slow down time, enabling me to compose myself and start shooting the 70 long-exposure frames that form the panorama of this glorious scene.