I arrived at Chania Old Port just before first light: the sky was in the fragile moments between darkness and dawn, a soft glimmer rising on the horizon.

I had planned to photograph the lighthouse with the sunrise light behind it. Once successful, the second plan was to capture a panoramic view of the entire port. This is hard to achieve as people wander around, even during these very early hours. Fortunately, I only had to clone out a person on the far left side of the frame.

This panorama consists of several carefully composed vertical frames, which have been stitched and processed together in Lightroom to create a seamless depiction of the harbour, stone, and sky.

The Old Venetian Port of Chania embodies centuries of layered history: constructed by the Venetians between 1320 and 1356, it once served as a bustling commercial and naval hub. The lighthouse at the entrance of the harbour, originally Venetian and later reconstructed by Egyptians in the early nineteenth century, had already started to catch the dawn’s glow. Along the quays, the stone buildings — Venetian, Ottoman, and Neoclassical — lay quiet, their colours muted in the early light, yet imbued with character and texture.

While capturing each frame, I felt a mixture of reverence and exhilaration: reverence for the enduring nature of stone, sea, and architecture that have withstood wars, change of rulers, and the passage of time; and exhilaration at witnessing the light break over the horizon to the right, casting long shadows and subtle highlights, revealing textures in the cobblestones and structures. There was a sense of tranquillity: no crowds, no hurried tourists; only the light and a silent exchange of form and colour.

I chose to stitch vertical frames in order to ensure that each segment would capture both detail close to me — the bench, the lamp posts, the quay edge — and the distant elements: the lighthouse, the cityscape, and the distant fortress walls. During the capturing process, I leaned carefully on consistency, including white balance, exposure, and lens distortion; the camera was in full manual mode. Lightroom later allowed me to align and adjust the frames so that the panoramic result would feel unified; the foreground stones flowing into the mid-ground harbour, reaching the distant horizon and extending into the sky above.

I felt humbled and appreciative: humbled by the extensive history of this harbour, a symbol of civilisation founded on maritime trade, defence, art, and culture; appreciative of the opportunity to experience that cherished moment.

When I finally saw the stitched and processed image in Lightroom: colours balanced, tones preserved, edges clean, sky gradated — I experienced a sense of having captured a timeless moment: that harbour at dawn, that light warming stones, that architecture breathing history. It seemed as though I had created not merely a photograph but a reflection: on beauty, on permanence and transience in equal measure.

This is the reason I love capturing images of locations such as Chania: because each photograph is more than a record: it serves as an emotional mapping of how light, time, history, and place can evoke feelings when all elements harmonise.