The views.

We got to the quay an hour or so before sunset, mostly to dry off after a wet walk in from the coast path. The light had other plans. Just as the crowds drifted back to the pub, the whole harbour turned a deep, syrupy gold and the water between the stone walls went completely still.

This is the classic view down the harbour entrance, but at this time of evening it becomes something else entirely — the headlands go almost black, the sky burns through the gap, and the little stone pier catches the last of the warmth.

After two days of walking, this was the resting spot we kept coming back to — a flat shelf of turf halfway up the cliff with the whole harbour laid out below and nothing but open Atlantic beyond.

It's a photo about scale more than anything: one person, a green jacket against a huge grey sea. I wanted the horizon high in the frame so the water dominates, and the figure small enough that you feel the wind.

This rock sits just off the headland, and at sunset it turns into a silhouette no matter what you do — so I stopped fighting it and leaned in.

The trick here was exposure: let the sky be the subject, expose for it, and let the rock fall to a clean black shape. The sun was already behind the headland, so the whole scene lasted only a few minutes of that soft, fading peach light.

The tide was coming back in and the route across the boulders was getting progressively more adventurous, which is how we ended up scrambling out to the far rocks with boots in hand.

I love this kind of frame — a person standing small among huge dark slabs of serpentine rock, with the surf pushing in behind. It gives a sense of what the cove actually feels like underfoot, not just how it looks from the path.

This is the view that stops nearly everyone on the path down to the beach: water the colour of the Mediterranean, but ringed by dark, alien rock that looks far older than it has any right to.

The contrast is the whole photo — turquoise against near-black, soft water against hard rock. I waited for a moment when the tide had smoothed the water between waves, so the colours stayed clean rather than churned up.

The arch is the thing everyone photographs at Kynance, and rightly so — a natural window in the rock looking straight down the beach.

Rather than shooting through it from the sand, we scrambled around to the other side and used the arch itself as the frame: dark rock edge-to-edge, with the beach, the cliffs and the light all contained inside it. It turns a wide landscape into something intimate.

We had the abbey almost to ourselves by late afternoon, when most of the day visitors had drifted back down the hill to Kyrenia. The cloister is a single straight arcade of Gothic arches, and at that hour the low sun pours straight down it, lighting one side gold and leaving the other in cool shade.

I stood at one end and let the arches do the work — frame after frame repeating into the distance, with that one bright doorway at the far end giving the eye somewhere to land. It's a photo about rhythm and light more than the building itself.