There are days when one sets out with purpose, tripod packed with military precision, lenses polished to a devotional shine, and a firm belief that one is about to create Art. And then there are days when one simply ends up somewhere by accident, slightly underprepared, mildly dusty, and unexpectedly delighted. This, rather conveniently, was the latter.
The place in question is called love lake. A name that suggests poetry, candlelight, and perhaps a violinist hiding behind a shrub. In reality, it sits quite unapologetically in the middle of the Dubai desert near a place called Al Qudra, surrounded not by sonnets but by SUVs, folding chairs, and the faint but unmistakable aroma of marinated meat meeting its destiny over open flame.
The drive itself was half the experience. There is something deeply satisfying about leaving behind glass towers and well-behaved roads and heading into a landscape that looks like it has been designed by someone who really liked the colour beige and decided to commit to it wholeheartedly. The road stretches, the horizon blurs, and you begin to feel that curious calm that only comes when civilisation politely excuses itself.
By the time we reached the place navigating dirt tracks and sand dunes, the sun was already beginning its slow, theatrical descent. Now, sunsets in the desert have a habit of showing off. They don’t just set; they perform. The sky turns from gold to amber to a shade of orange that feels almost excessive, as if the sun is reluctant to leave and is throwing a final extravagant party before disappearing.
Around us, families were setting up camp with impressive efficiency. Out came the barbecues, lights, folding tables, and what appeared to be enough food to sustain a small expedition across the Sahara. Children ran about with the sort of enthusiasm that only open space can provide, while adults stood around offering highly authoritative advice on how to properly grill something they had clearly overcooked five minutes earlier.
And there I was, trying to remember how to photograph a landscape without overthinking it.
It had been a while. There’s a peculiar joy in returning to something familiar after a gap, like meeting an old friend and realising you still understand each other perfectly well, despite the time apart.
The light faded, as it inevitably does, and the lake—shaped rather romantically, I’m told—settled into a quieter, more reflective mood. This is the moment photographers pretend to be calm about, while internally panicking about exposure, dynamic range, and whether they’ve left their brain somewhere back in the car.
Somewhere in that gentle transition from day to night, I managed to take two photographs that I rather like. Not masterpieces, not the sort that demand gallery space and hushed admiration, but honest, well-earned images that carry a bit of the evening within them. The kind you look at later and think, yes, that felt right.
After the light had gone and the all photographic ideas had been reluctantly packed away, my attention shifted, quite sensibly, to the barbecue. There is a certain poetry to standing in the desert, plate in hand, eating something smoky and delicious while the night quietly settles around you. No camping for me this time, no sleeping under the stars or waking up to sand in places one would rather not discuss. Just good food, good company, and the quiet satisfaction of having stepped away from routine for a few hours.
The drive back was calmer, the kind that allows thoughts to wander a bit.
The city lights slowly reappeared, as they always do, reminding you that the world you left behind hasn’t gone anywhere.
But something about the evening lingers.
Perhaps it’s the simplicity of it. A drive, a sunset, a couple of photographs, and a meal. Nothing dramatic, nothing particularly planned. And yet, rather unexpectedly, quite perfect.
