We’ve all been there: You plan the "perfect shoot." You check the weather (a million times). You pack your gear with the precision of a surgeon preparing for an operation. And then... the universe shrugs and says, "Ah, you know what, not today."
That’s exactly what happened when I set out to photograph a wonderful dolmen/chapel hybrid under the Milky Way. Instead of glittering stars, I got a sky full of stupid clouds—like some cosmic joker had tossed a giant blanket over the sky. But here’s the thing I’ve learned (the hard way, repeatedly): Sometimes the best shots aren’t the ones you chase. They’re the ones that find you when you’re busy cursing the landscape photography gods.
The Best-Laid Plans and All That (And Why They Rarely Coincide With Reality)
After days of shooting Lisbon’s chaotic streets, I was craving quiet—the kind of silence that feels like a deep breath for the soul. So we drove into the Portuguese countryside, where cork trees stretch like old Ents from Lord of the Rings and the air smells like fresh-cut grass and possibility.
The plan? A two-part astro extravaganza:
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Late-night magic: The Milky Way’s tail curling behind the chapel.
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Pre-dawn drama: The galactic core rising like a celestial crown.
I had my compositions locked in, my tripod steady, my gear ready drop-of-the-hat style, and I was excited.
Spoiler alert: None of it happened. Clouds rolled in—not the wispy, poetic kind, but the thick, unrelenting sort that screams, "I’ve had enough of you standing around." So I waited and... you guessed it, waited some more. The forecast swore it’d clear by 11 PM. The clouds, however, had other plans.
So instead of stars, I got:
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A frog choir practicing their greatest hits (which was actually lovely).
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Distant cowbells (very Heidi, but minus the Alps).
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A breeze so gentle it felt like the sky was patting me on the bald head, saying, "Better luck next time."
Plan B: Surely I can take a picture of something?
Fine. If the sky wouldn’t play ball, I’d work with what I had. Because here’s the truth no one tells you: Constraints breed creativity. No Milky Way? Fine—let’s play with light painting and the few stars that were kind enough to show up. The moon’s right there, cool-looking, surrounded by the vast emptiness of space. The clouds hadn't covered it just yet. Ever the optimist, I started to rethink—perhaps there is still something here to shoot.
I grabbed my phone and let its beam skate across the dolmen/chapel’s stones, watching how the light carved grooves into the walls like time itself had taken a chisel to them. It wasn’t the shot I’d dreamed of, but it was indeed a shot. And sometimes, that’s enough. It’s always such a joy to see Orion in the sky too—including this constellation makes the image pop a little more.
Then, because the universe owed me something, I framed the moon—soft, solitary, and moody (or moony, if you will) as a poet in a café. Photographing the moon at any phase is a fantastic chase. It can hamper your astro plans, but as far as consolation prizes go, I’m still happy with this simple shot.
Still, no Milky Way. Just a memory card full of "next time" and a lesson in humility.
The Pivot: When Photography Gives You Lemons, Shoot The Ruins Instead
Here’s the truth: Photography isn’t about control. It’s about surrender. So we ditched the starless sky and drove to Évora, where the Templo de Diana—a 2,000-year-old Roman ruin—waits like a patient teacher. And this time, I hoped the clouds that were in the sky would stick around.
Last time I was here, it was packed with tourists and backed by harsh noon light—the kind of light that turns shadows into pointy hash edges and ruins like this into postcard snapshots. This time around though? Nearly empty—just me and the ghosts of Romans who probably never imagined their temple would outlive an empire.
Funny how places reveal themselves differently when you’re forced to slow down. Without the crowds, I noticed the way lichen clung to the columns like green mossy lace, how the stone’s rough texture warmed under my palm. It’s these tiny, unplanned details that stitch a place into your memory—and make you feel like you’ve become part of its history.
Long Exposures and the Art of Letting Go
New plan: Take advantage of the clouds and their movement. Wait for sunset. Wait for blue hour. Let’s see if things work out for me this time around.
I popped on my Kase Filters—the 10-stop and 3-stop ND—and went for some long exposures (1.5–3 minutes), dragging the clouds into ethereal streaks. Some shots worked. Some didn’t. But when they did? Pure magic. I love how slowing down the shutter can add an extra layer of pop to images. Streaking clouds like you would with water leads to stunning results.
As the sun set, I caught the slightest bit of color in the sky—and wow, did the whole place come alive! But just before the sun vanished, a distant break in the clouds (one I hadn’t even noticed) let the light cast the warmest pink hues onto the temple’s mighty columns. This was the cherry on top—a moment that made me gasp.
Then, blue hour crept in, and the temple lights flicked on—instant drama. I bracketed the shots like a madman, blending exposures to hold onto the warm glow of artificial light on stone and the cool whisper of twilight in the sky.
Was it perfect? I’ll let you be the judge. Was it magic? Absolutely!
The Takeaway: Why the Unplanned Shots Matter Most
I didn’t get my Milky Way. But as I stood there, staring at the Roman columns bathed in that fleeting pink light, it hit me: The best images are often the ones that humble you. They’re the shots that whisper, "You’re not in control—and that’s okay."
It’s easy to obsess over plans, especially in photography. We chase golden hour, track moon phases, and pray to the landscape photography gods like the shamans of old. But what if the magic lies in the detours, the shots around the corner? The ruined astro shoot that leads you to a foggy valley at dawn (which I have a whole other story about). The missed sunset that forces you to notice how streetlights glow on wet pavement. The list is as long as you make it. You're out taking pictures, and that is just as important.
Years from now, I might not remember the Milky Way shot I didn’t get. But I’ll certainly remember the feel of that Roman stone under my fingertips, the way the light clung to the columns like it was trying to tell me something. So next time your shoot doesn't come to life, don’t get too mad. Look around. Listen. Adapt. There might be a 2,000-year-old ruin—or some other unplanned wonder—waiting for you.
And honestly? Those are the shots that stay with you longest.
Have you a ‘lemons to lemonade’ photo or story like this one? I'd love to hear about it in the comments below.
Cheers!
P.S. A shameless plug, I know, but you are most welcome to watch the video above for more images and a bit more of a story on how it all came to pass.
