Muddy Boots, Mad Dogs & Molten Gold: A Tuesday at Southerndown
Right then, grab a brew—or a pint if it’s past 5 PM—and let’s talk about Tuesday.
If you know me, you know there is nothing I love more than the immediate aftermath of a proper storm. You know that specific time? When the wind has finally stopped trying to rip the roof off, the rain eases into a mist, and the sky is left looking like a bruised peach. The air smells of ozone and salt, and the light… well, the light does things that Photoshop wishes it could do.
So, I had a bit of a plan. I hopped on the bus from Llantwit Major over to Southerndown. I had the trusty Canon EOS R slung over one shoulder and Toby—my absolutely mad red Labrador—yanking my arm out of its socket on the other.
The original plan was actually to be a bit vain. I wanted to walk back along the coast and finally get a decent "professional" photo of myself and the dog for my profile. You know the sort: brooding photographer looking at the horizon, loyal hound by his side.
Well, that didn't happen. Not even close.
As soon as we hit the beach at Southerndown, the light just went absolutely mental. I took one look at that sky and thought, "Sorry Toby, your modeling career is on hold, mate." I couldn't waste a single second of that light trying to set up a tripod and a self-timer while wrestling a wet, sand-covered dog.
The tide was racing in, and the light was doing that classic Winter-on-the-Vale thing where it can’t decide between drama and serenity, so it just gave me both at once. The rocks stretched out like an ancient causeway, pulling the eye straight into a storm-heavy horizon. The sky was splitting into layers of soft silver and bruised cloud, as if the weather couldn’t quite commit to the downpour it was threatening.
I set up the EOS R for a long exposure to smooth the water into a soft mist—swirling around the stone ledges like breath on cold glass—while a faint glow pushed through the clouds. It was that rare pause where the land, sea, and sky hold a fragile truce for just a heartbeat.
Then, the storm rolled in with a weight you could almost feel. Out beyond the rocks, the sea churned in long, restless strokes, but just as the darkness threatened to swallow the coast, the sky cracked open with a fierce, golden flare. It swept across the water like a spotlight, catching the spray and igniting the horizon in tarnished gold. It’s the kind of scene the Heritage Coast specialises in: brutal, beautiful, and utterly unpredictable.
As the storm finally spent itself, the coast looked scrubbed clean and strangely reborn. The cliffs glowed with deep, warm tones, and down below, the waterfall spilled steadily from the jagged edge—a thin, persistent thread tying sky to sea. Pools formed in the sand, quiet little worlds holding the reflections the tide had forgotten to take back.
By the time the last of the storm slipped away, the clouds looked like brushstrokes from an impatient painter, torn across the fading light. Beneath all that movement, the sea settled into a muted calm. The rocks in the foreground, warm-toned and textured, held the scene together while the colours shifted from storm-dark to dusk-soft. It felt like the whole coastline was taking a deep breath.
As the last of the daylight slipped beneath the weather front, the whole sky seemed to hesitate. Heavy clouds dragged themselves across the scene, layered in bruised greys, yet beneath that weight, the horizon burned softly with a band of molten yellow. The beach mirrored the sky in broken fragments, each pool catching a different shade of the lingering light.
The day was slipping away fast now. The last traces of light brushed the cliffs, turning them a burnished copper against the deepening storm. Despite the tension in the air, there was a strange stillness—the kind that arrives only after a day of wild weather. Moments like this feel borrowed, a fleeting pause between the last sigh of daylight and the night’s arrival.
Finally, night began inching in, swallowing the shoreline one quiet shade at a time. Everything surrendered to blue-grey dusk, except for a stubborn ribbon of light clinging to the limestone cliffs. The air felt cooler, thinner. It was a scene balanced on the edge of nightfall: quiet, contemplative, and stripped back to its bones.
We carried on walking, with Toby running in and out of the surf like a lunatic in the dark. It was about 5:30 PM by the time we got off the beach, and it was pitch black. My boots were caked in mud, my trousers were soaked, and I hadn't taken a single selfie. But looking at the back of the camera? Worth it.
We made a beeline for the Plough and Harrow. There is nothing—and I mean nothing—better than walking into a warm pub after being battered by the coastal wind. I settled in for a couple of pints of Jemima’s Pitchfork by Glamorgan Brewing Co. The dog slept by the fire, I checked the shots, and the pint went down far too easily.
Best Tuesday I’ve had in ages.