Finding Stillness at Watergate Bay: A Minimalist Photograph and a Reignited Love for Photography

During a coastal walk from Mawgan Porth to Newquay, I captured a minimalist photo of Watergate Bay that reminded me why I fell in love with photography. Using a new camera and a circular polariser, I slowed down, focused on composition, and reconnected with the joy of seeing. This image—with its simple lines and natural colours—marks not just a moment, but a quiet return to something I’d been missing.

Finding Stillness at Watergate Bay: A Minimalist Moment on the Coastal Path

There are days when everything just lines up—when the camera in your hand feels like an extension of your eye, when the light is just right, and when the landscape offers up something unexpectedly quiet and powerful. This photo, taken on a walk from Mawgan Porth to Newquay along the South West Coast Path, is one of those moments.

I took it at Watergate Bay, standing above the beach, looking out at the Atlantic. The view stopped me in my tracks—not because it was dramatic, but because it was so peaceful, so structured, and so complete. The simplicity of the scene struck me: gently stacked waves in bands of soft green and blue, the wide strip of golden sand, and a sense of depth that came not from any dramatic subject, but from the layers of colour and texture stretching into the distance. The final image you see here has had very little editing in Lightroom. What you’re looking at is essentially what I saw. The colours really were like that—subtle yet rich—and the only enhancement I made was using a K&F circular polariser, which helped reduce reflections and glare, intensifying the natural hues without distorting them.

It’s a minimalist image, and I mean that in the most literal sense. There’s no focal subject, no people, no birds or boats—just lines, light, and texture. It almost feels like a painting or a design layout rather than a typical beach photograph. And perhaps that’s why I’m so drawn to it. There’s something therapeutic about stripping a scene back to its essentials.

A Different Way of Seeing

This image also marks a shift in how I’ve been approaching photography lately. After a long gap—months, maybe even years—of rarely picking up a camera, I recently invested in a new one. I won’t name the model here (that’s not really the point), but it’s one that encourages a slower, more deliberate way of shooting. For reasons I’m still figuring out, it has completely reawakened my love of photography.

I think it’s partly that the camera has limitations. It doesn’t do everything for me, and that’s a good thing. I find myself slowing down, being more thoughtful. Instead of snapping away and hoping one image will work, I now spend more time composing each shot—considering the light, the lines, the story. This isn’t about being precious or trying to be ‘arty’; it’s about reconnecting with the act of seeing.

And on this walk, camera in hand for the first time in ages, I began to see things differently. Not in the grand, sweeping way we often associate with landscape photography—but in the small shifts, the subtle harmonies, the quiet drama of a beach and a sea moving in rhythm.

The Walk Itself

The walk from Mawgan Porth to Newquay is one I’d recommend to anyone who loves the coast. It’s not especially long or difficult, but it offers such variety—cliffs, coves, open sands, and the ever-changing Atlantic to your side. Watergate Bay sits roughly halfway along and is a spot that combines wild beauty with easy access. It’s popular in the summer, full of surfers and families, but on this day it was almost empty. That helped.

Sometimes, solitude is what opens the door to creativity. Without distractions or urgency, you can stand still and just observe. I must have stood in that spot for ten minutes before even raising the camera. I watched the way the light shifted slightly as clouds passed overhead, how the tide moved in steady pulses, how the tones changed from warm sand to aqua green to deep marine blue. The act of photographing it became more like meditating than documenting.

Minimalism in a Noisy World

We live in an image-saturated world. Our phones are full of snapshots, our feeds overflowing with visual noise. I think that’s why I’ve grown increasingly drawn to minimalism in my photography. It’s not about following a trend or mimicking an aesthetic; it’s about creating space—for myself and for anyone viewing the image. A minimalist photograph asks you to slow down. It doesn’t shout. It whispers. It invites you in, but doesn’t try to impress you. It just is.

This photograph from Watergate Bay embodies that philosophy. It wasn’t planned. I didn’t set out that day thinking I’d shoot something that felt like a visual haiku. But when the moment came, I was ready for it—because the camera was in my hand, and my head was in the right place.

The Joy of Beginning Again

There’s something quietly powerful about rediscovering something you never truly lost. Photography has always been a massive part of my life—a thread running through so many years, so many moments—but sometimes, it gets pushed aside. Not forgotten, just… overlooked. Life has a way of doing that. Responsibilities pile up, distractions multiply, and before you know it, the thing that once brought you so much joy is gathering dust.

It had been months since I’d last gone out with the camera, although it sometimes felt like years. That’s the strange thing about time—it doesn’t just pass; it weighs. And when something meaningful slips out of your routine, it can feel like a part of you has gone quiet.

But that day, walking the path with the sea to my left and the sky wide open above, something shifted. The camera was in my hand again. My eyes were alert to light and form. And that familiar joy returned—not loud, not overwhelming, just a steady, grounding sense of this is what I love.

This wasn’t about chasing the perfect shot or proving anything. It was about reconnecting. About pausing long enough to see again. About remembering that photography doesn’t demand anything from me except presence—and that’s a gift.

Looking Ahead

I don’t know what’s next for my photography. I’m not planning any grand projects. But I do know I want to keep walking, keep seeing, and keep shooting in this slower, more mindful way. Not every image will be worth sharing. Some might be for me alone. And that’s fine.

What matters is that I’ve remembered why I fell in love with photography in the first place. It wasn’t about gear or followers or even results—it was about looking more deeply at the world. About being curious. About finding quiet moments and holding on to them.

So this image is more than a picture—it’s a turning point. A reminder. A small act of stillness in a fast-moving world.