This page takes on a slightly different format, as in it takes you along on a walk I shared with my grandson. See if you pick up on the autumn woodland photography tips for beginners as you read through. You can then check against the Quick Settings Checklist at the end of the page.
I tugged at Sam's sleeve. He grunted as his thumb slipped from the phone screen. "Come on, the natural world has better graphics!"
He reached for his hoodie, fumbled with the zip, shooting me a sideways glance. "Huff!"
His screen dimmed as he shoved it into his pocket. My gaze lingered on its outline for just a moment. Perfect.
Later...
He trudged behind me, lost to the tiny, scrolling world in his palm.
A leaf, bright as a streak of paint, landed on my sleeve. I flicked it at him; it tickled his cheek, prompting a slight grin. "Hey, you're missing the good stuff."
A squirrel darted across the path, its tail a frantic question mark.
I squinted, tracing its zig-zagging path to a patch of upturned earth. My camera bag stayed zipped shut.
First, we observe the subject in its natural habitat, I thought, smiling.
"You remind me of walks with my Grandad Bill. Especially the day he gently stopped me, put a finger to his lips and looked left. A stag! The deer saw us and melted into the trees. Ever since, I use my eyes first. The camera can wait."
It wasn't long before I spotted something I couldn't resist sharing.
"Wait, look," I whispered, kneeling to trace the sharp edges of an impression in the mud. It wasn't a paw... but two perfect, cloven half-moons. A few feet away sat 3 small piles of glossy brown droppings.
Sam wrinkled his nose. "Ugh, what's that?"
"Evidence," I shrugged. "Dog paws are messy. These are too neat, too sharp. Almost like they were placed there on purpose."
He leaned closer, his eyes following the line of the prints.
As the quiet rasp of my camera bag's zipper drifted over to him, he took a half-step back to give me a clearer shot, his gaze fixed on the tiny tracks.
"Exhibit A," I muttered, making sure he heard. Then I turned to the droppings.
"You're not going to..." he began, as the shutter clicked.
"And exhibit B," I stated, as I stood up.
Taken by my neighbour on her Android phone in her back garden, showing examples of the critters that left the "evidence" above.
"Here," I said, pulling my spare camera from the bag. "Your turn."
His eyes widened as he took it. "Wow. It's... heavy." His fingers fumbled with the unfamiliar ridges of the lens cap as I settled the leather strap around his neck, the weight seeming to anchor him to the spot.
Just then, a robin landed on a branch nearby, a flash of orange against the muted woods.
"There," I whispered.
The camera's autofocus whirred. Click.
He lowered it with a grin, though his eyes remained on the bird. I leaned in to see the photo: a little fuzzy and dead centre.
"Again," I murmured. "Give him some sky."
He brought the viewfinder back to his eye, his stance more solid this time. His thumb adjusted the focus point. Another quiet click echoed in the woods. The smile that lit up his face said it all.
I showed him my shot of the robin.
"How did you make the background so... blurry?" he asked.
I adjusted the settings for him. "Now... take another picture," I murmured.
This time the branches behind the robin blurred into a soft wash of green.
"How'd you do that?" he asked leaning closer.
"Want to know something odd? The bigger the lens opening, the smaller the f-number. Doesn't that just sound daft? Bigger opening means a shallower depth of field, so the background blurs."
Sam nodded as if he understood, reaching for the camera eagerly.
"That's crazy! But I like what it does."
As the sun began to dip, the light filtering through the trees turned thick and golden.
"Bit gloomy, isn't it?" Sam muttered.
"Gloomy? No," I said, a familiar thrill rising in my chest. "This is it. This is the magic."
I pointed to a tree trunk ahead, where the warm light was painting the bark honey-gold. "Watch. Just watch that tree. See how the light wraps around it? There are no hard edges anymore. It's just... soft."
Sam lifted the camera. The shutter clicked. He stared at the screen for a long moment, his expression shifting from doubt to quiet wonder.
"It looks... warm," he said, almost to himself. "Like, actually warm."
We came across a cluster of tiny toadstools.
"A hidden world," he whispered, crouching down.
He reached for the camera, but I stopped him. "Actually, the lens on there won't focus close enough for something this small. Use your phone instead."
Sam pulled out his phone, and brought up the phone app.
"Tap on the screen to focus on the fungi... Has the flower icon come up?'
"Yes, but it's too dark. Should I turn the flash on?"
"Goodness, no," I laughed softly. "Flash is a sledgehammer. It blasts all the details away and makes everything look flat and cold. But we can make our own light."
I held my white water bottle close to the fungi. "Anything white works. A napkin, a piece of paper... you don't need fancy gear."
The difference was stark. The golden light hit the bottle and spilled back into the mushroom's delicate gills, tracing details that had been lost to shadow.
"Wow, I didn't know my phone could do that!"
As we walked back, a gust of wind sent a spiral of golden leaves dancing down around us.
Without any prompting from me, Sam lifted his phone and tapped.
"Did you get it?" I asked.
He looked at the screen and grinned. "I got the feeling of it."
It wasn't the triumphant grin he'd had before. This was a quiet, almost private smile, and he lowered the phone slowly, his gaze still on the falling leaves.
He captured the blur of a single golden leaf as it spiraled down, the way the low sun ignited its edges, and the feeling of a whole season packed into one, windy second.
"I get it now," he said, his voice full of new excitement. "It's not about the thing, it's about the moment."
That was it. The secret I could never quite put into words. He wasn't just taking a picture of a thing; he was learning how to keep a feeling.
"I got the feeling of it."
When my grandson, Sam, said that, I knew our walk had changed something. It reminded me that the most powerful lessons aren't about fancy gear; they're about learning to see.
That feeling is exactly why I write this site. If you'd like to start seeing the world a little differently, perhaps some of my other pages might help guide you on your way.
Use these settings as a starting point for your photos. Tweak them as conditions change.
When to go: Early mornings or late autumn afternoons offer delicious, buttery light that slips between the trees, making them ideal for woodland photography.
Camera (quick settings):
Try turning on IS (image stabilisation), putting your camera on a tripod, or bracing against a nearby tree trunk. If necessary increase the ISO.
Don't panic about the ISO level as modern cameras tolerate higher ISOs than those I used in the olden days, as my daughter used to say.
Tips for Both
Pro tip: A white bottle/notebook works as a reflector to lift shadow detail on fungi.
For me, it’s never been just about bird names or camera settings. It’s about the quiet thrill of understanding the story unfolding in front of you. The moment a "weed" becomes a butterfly nursery, or a distant speck resolves into a hunting kestrel.
My camera is the tool I use to capture that magic, but my real passion is sharing it. This site is my digital field notebook, my collection of trips, and my invitation to you to stop, look a little closer, and find your own connection to the incredible nature on our doorstep.
If you've enjoyed your time here, the journey doesn't have to end.
I send out the Wild Lens newsletter on an occasional basis. It's where I share my latest field notes, the stories behind my favourite photos, and practical tips that don't always make it onto the site. It's your dose of quiet magic, delivered right to your inbox.
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