There’s something about Saltburn that keeps pulling me back — not just on the calm, postcard-perfect days, but on the raw, weather-beaten ones where the elements seem intent on reminding you exactly who’s in charge. This afternoon was one of those days: bitterly cold, fiercely blowy, and full of that restless coastal energy that makes photographing here such a rewarding challenge.
From the moment I stepped out onto the promenade, the wind came barrelling in off the North Sea with the kind of force that makes you brace your shoulders and hold tight to your hood. Showers swept through in sudden bursts, turning the light on and off like someone flicking a switch. The sea responded in kind — rolling, heaving and constantly shifting, never holding the same shape for more than a moment.
Saltburn Pier, as always, stood at the centre of it all. There’s a quiet resilience in its weathered frame, a sense of history etched into every beam and bolt. Today it felt almost sculptural against the moody skies, its reflection shimmering in the wet sand whenever the tide pulled back far enough to reveal it.
As the afternoon wore on, the clouds began to fracture, letting through glimmers of the low winter sun. Then, almost unexpectedly, the sky ignited. Warm splashes of orange and pink drifted across the cooler blues — fleeting colours that lasted only minutes but transformed the whole scene. It’s those moments, after hours of battling the cold, that remind you why you stay out with the camera even when common sense tells you to head home and put the kettle on.
The photographs from today capture a little of that contrast: the harshness of the weather, the softness of the light, the unwavering presence of the pier, and the constant motion of the sea. Saltburn has a way of offering drama and beauty in the same breath, and it’s a place where even a stormy winter’s afternoon can deliver something quietly spectacular.
Days like this are a reminder that photography isn’t just about waiting for perfect conditions — it’s about embracing the imperfect ones, and trusting that the light will come. And when it does, even for a minute, it’s more than enough.
