La Palma Nights: Smartscopes, Red Lights, and a Man in a Bush
The 2025 astrophotography workshop season kicked off with everything I’ve come to expect from La Palma after over twenty years of running workshops here: crystal-clear skies, winding mountain roads, plenty of gear, a few surprises, and at least one moment of complete absurdity.
This year’s crew was a brilliant mix. Mike and Dave were first-time visitors to the island, seeing La Palma’s otherworldly terrain and skies with fresh eyes. Paul had been here before on a family holiday and returned this time fully kitted out, ready to capture the island after dark. And Frank, a veteran of a previous workshop, came back like an old friend—calm, reliable, and as steady as the tripod he brought (which, despite rumors, was absolutely fine the entire week).
Things kicked off with travel-day chaos. Paul and Frank’s flight was delayed, but in a twist of fate that La Palma seems to specialize in, they landed just thirty minutes before Mike and I arrived. Once the group was complete, we made a tactical supermarket dash—charging through the aisles minutes before closing time, grabbing whatever essentials we could: bread, cheese, wine of questionable origin, biscuits (far too many), and an enthusiastic amount of fruit we definitely didn’t finish.
Fully provisioned, we began the winding drive up into the mountains. For Mike and Dave, it was their first real taste of La Palma’s hairpin roads and jaw-dropping vistas. Our rental car—bless its sturdy suspension—handled it all with grace, weaving its way up to the villa without complaint, even with half a tonne of camera gear crammed in the back.
We arrived late. The stars were already out, and La Palma wasted no time showing off. No one unpacked anything that night—not even Paul, who had brought along a smartscope. We just stood there for a while, looking up, letting it hit us. The Milky Way stretched from horizon to horizon, and for Mike and Dave, it was their first time seeing skies this dark. That silence? That stillness? That’s how the week really began.
From the next evening onward, we were in full swing. Every night, the full group—Paul, Mike, Dave, and Frank—headed out together to a different location. From volcanic peaks and remote observatory roads to hidden pine clearings and wild coastal outcrops, we travelled as a unit, chasing compositions and staying one step ahead of the clouds. No one wandered off solo; every shoot was a shared experience, full of banter, borrowed gear, and team snacks.
And then there was Dave’s headlamp.
Let me explain. Dave brought a red light, like any seasoned night shooter would. In theory, red light preserves your night vision while not interfering with long exposures.
In theory.
In practice, Dave’s light appeared to have been designed by someone who thought subtlety was for cowards. It didn’t so much "glow" as announce itself across the hillside. It pulsed. It flared. At one point, it gave off such a blinding flash that Paul thought he'd captured a meteor, until he realized it was just Dave turning to look at his thermos.
Every time we were about to start a shot, someone would whisper, “Where’s Dave?” followed by a soft red glow bouncing off the cliffs like a rave had started in the distance. We tried wrapping it in tissue, angling it down, even politely confiscating it once or twice—but somehow, it always came back, brighter and more chaotic than before. The group consensus? Either he was trying to signal the International Space Station or ward off predators. Either way, mission accomplished.
But the chaos didn’t end there.
One night, while shooting near the observatory area, we noticed a figure in the distance dragging a suitcase through the dark. Strange. Then, as soon as our headlamps lit up, the figure dropped to the ground and rolled into a bush like they’d rehearsed it.
It turned out he was trying to sneak into the observatory zone without permission and, seeing our lights, assumed we were official staff coming to kick him out. The poor guy had packed a suitcase full of gear and panicked mid-infiltration. We had to coax him out with assurances that we were just photographers, not security. He emerged like a raccoon caught in a bin, nodded silently, and wheeled his suitcase off into the shadows. Still one of the strangest things I’ve seen on this island—and that’s saying something.
By day, we recovered slowly. There were no rigid schedules, just good coffee, quiet afternoons reviewing images, and plenty of laughs about the night before. Paul’s smartscope finally came out midweek, set up on the villa terrace collecting beautiful deep-sky images while he worked with his camera nearby. Everyone captured something special—star trails, widefields, deep sky, Milky Way panoramas. The images spoke for themselves, but so did the stories.
Frank’s work, as always, was methodical and beautifully composed. Mike picked up the La Palma rhythm quickly, delivering some powerful foreground work with the Milky Way blazing behind it. Dave, when not blinding us all, produced some of the most dynamic shots of the trip. And Paul, camera in one hand, smartscope quietly whirring in the background, bounced between compositions like he’d lived here for years.
It was, in every way, a classic La Palma workshop—just with a few more flashlights and one bush-related incident.
After twenty years of running these trips, you'd think the island might run out of surprises. But it never does. The stars are always the main event—but it’s the laughter, the strange encounters, and the shared wins (and fails) that really make the trip.
Until next time. And Dave… maybe leave the light at home.
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