Grey Horizons on Minehead Beach

As I walked along Minehead Beach, camera in hand, the muted tones of the grey day seemed to echo something within me—a quiet, reflective mood that the weather seemed to understand. In my mid-50s, I’ve walked plenty of beaches, but this one on a damp, half-tide morning felt different. There’s a kind of beauty in the desolation of a place that’s neither fully occupied by the sea nor fully left behind, caught somewhere between ebb and flow, much like moments in life.

The flats along the shore to my right stood starkly against the landscape, human-made yet resilient, softened only slightly by the mist that hung in the air. I could see the familiar sight of Butlins in the distance: the massive white tent with its distinctive peaks, and the newer Skylodge apartments rising above. These buildings, normally bustling, now felt subdued, as if even they had settled into the quiet rhythm of the day.

I framed the shot, thinking about time and permanence—how the beach changes with each tide, yet the human structures stand firm, shaping and being shaped by this place. I was drawn to the contrast: the sand’s shifting patterns against the solid, unyielding lines of the buildings. Perhaps I hoped the photograph would capture something of that feeling—a record of the fleeting and the enduring, both softened by the grey light of a November morning. In this single, still moment, there was a sense of calm and continuity that seemed worth preserving.

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