When I scroll throughÂ myÂ portfolio, the thing that strikes me most isÂ colour. I love colour. Not just colour, but also light, shadows, water, clouds and the seasons. As a photographer, I try to combine these passions with landscapes that inspire me; most of which are to be found in the Highlands and Islands. Iâ€™m also drawn to the finer details within these landscapes, such as a simple snail, a shell, a collection of pebbles or an outcrop of lichen on a stone wall; things that most people missÂ whilst lost in conversation or walking the dog.
Iâ€™m pleased to say that my Black Isle Project is becoming something of an obsession. I have a very clear visionÂ but it certainly doesnâ€™t involveÂ photographing muddy puddles or horizontal rain â€“ the 2015/16 winter status quo. Landscape photography in the Highlands this season has been frustrating. I want snow underfoot and sunshine overhead on a day when I am free to indulge in photography.Â By and large, it isn’t happening.
Iâ€™m sitting here casting my mind back over the years, trying to recall another winter like this one. Itâ€™s little wonder that I canâ€™t. December 2015 was the wettest calendar month ever recorded in the UK since records began in 1910. It was also the warmest December ever recorded with temperatures more typical of April or May. In some parts of the country, temperatures were so mild that the winter solstice was actually warmer than the cool, damp summer solstice experienced in June! December was followed by a record-breaking January; another damp month which apparently dropped five times more rain on the Highlands than the historical average. It would seem that the extreme weather events indicative of climate change are unfolding before our eyes. A couple of weeks ago I was out at dawn photographing sea ice on the shores of the Cromarty Firth, wearing more layers than the Michelin man. The followingÂ weekend, I was stripped down to jeans and t-shirt in the car because it was so warm. Iâ€™m counting myself lucky though. My grumblings about the weather are minuscule compared with those of the thousands of people affected by flooding these pastÂ fewÂ months.
The winter solstice â€“ the shortest day of the year in the northern hemisphere â€“ has been celebrated since Roman times. The annual Roman festival, Saturnalia, was characterised by feasting, generosity to the poor and the exchange of gifts.Â Pagan traditions and the celebration of the birth of Christ have become intertwined and nowadays, in the West, we celebrate Christmas a few days after the solstice with a confusing but vibrant mix of nativity, flying snowmen and reindeer, and copious amounts of presents, food and booze (unless you’ve turned tee-total, like me). It would seem that the need to inject some much needed excitement into an otherwise largely drab time of yearÂ is a fundamental human urge.
One of many books on my Christmas wish list this winter was â€˜The Natural Navigatorâ€™ byÂ Tristan Gooley. Iâ€™m pleased to say that Santa kindly obliged! This fascinating book teaches the reader how to find their way in the outdoors using only natureâ€™s clues, including puddles, tree branches, mosses and lichens, in favour of maps and GPS units. Iâ€™m only a quarter of my way through the book but already itâ€™s opened my eyes. Iâ€™m not about to dispense with my collection of Ordnance Survey maps or remove my compass from my camera bag, but Iâ€™m certainly paying more attention than ever before to the finer details in the landscapes around me.
Last weekend, I visited one of my favourite deciduous woodlands on the Black Isle; one of many hidden gems on this peninsula. I was last there in colourfulÂ autumn and it wasnâ€™t quite so photogenic this time. A dusting of patchy snow lay melting on the ground and the tree branches were bare with a greyÂ sky above them. In an attempt to grow my portfolio, my latest photography motto is not to return home empty-handed â€“ a bit of a challenge on a blustery, dullÂ January day! The quagmire at the entrance to the woods had almost swallowed my welly boots and so I opted to return via a different route. I deviated from the faint path and squeezed through a barbed wire fence at the edge of the wood. I emerged in aÂ field of barley stubble and admired the view of familiar landmarks from a new vantage point. I made a mental note of an image I want to capture in a different season then followed the boundary between field and wood.
I made a beeline for a dry stone wall or, as we Scots prefer to call it, a â€˜dry stane dykeâ€™. That pesky barbed wire fence runs alongside it within the wood, ruining any potential for the kind of photograph I wanted to capture. However, the dyke was free of obstructions on the side facing the field. As soon as I laid eyes on the vibrant colours of the sandstone, yellow and white lichen, and green moss, I knew I would return home with a slightly fuller memory card.
Capturing this image was a pleasure. I was completely alone with my camera and free to lose myself in my thoughts. Who built this wall? When was it built? When did someone last stand here and admire the stonework? Has anyone ever photographed this before? Will anyone ever photograph it again? Maybe my loner tendencies are too well-developed but, for me, a real turn-off is arriving at a location and finding another photographer already there with their tripod set up. This is normally my cue to keep walking or driving. Worse still is when someone arrives after me and sets up their kit a few feet away from mine, queuing up to shoot the same image. I want to capture originals, not duplicates, and thereâ€™s something so moving about being the sole witness to a beautiful moment in time. More and more Iâ€™m turning my back on the scenes that have been photographed a thousand times over in favour of seeking out my own locations.
As a geographer with an intimate knowledge of Scotland, I feel like I have an in-built compass. Most of the time I navigate from memory or instinct. Nevertheless, with thoughts of Tristan Gooleyâ€™s book in mind during my morning woodland adventure, anotherÂ question popped into my head: â€˜In which direction is this dyke facing?â€™ Â Due to being familiar with my surroundings, I didnâ€™t need to use my newly polished natural navigation skills on this occasion. However, despite only being on page sixty-something of the book at the time, I felt prepared to give it a go.Â As time goes on and I continue to explore the Black Isle and capture these intimate shots, I will pay closer attention to the local species of lichen and moss andÂ look for any common themes in terms of direction, moisture, texture and gradient.
Itâ€™s only early February and so Iâ€™m still holding out hope for some snow underfoot and sunshine overhead. After all, the big landscapes still inspire me the most. In the meantime, while the winter storms queue up one behind another out in the Atlantic and the puddles on the Black Isle get even bigger, Iâ€™ll look to the landscape elements for clues to understanding the world around me and for photographic inspiration in the hope of injecting some colour into the winter. I hope youâ€™ve enjoyed my entry in this weekâ€™s WordPress photographic challenge, the theme of which is â€˜vibrantâ€™.