Aside from my moorland shoot at Roche, plus a more gentle perusal of country lane wildflowers, our daily jaunts would mainly be spent exploring the dramatic North Cornish coast.

One of the most celebrated destinations along this stretch of shore is Tintagel, whose windswept headland and ruined remains cradle the fabled seat of King Arthur. Deep beneath the castle lurks Merlin’s Cave, where the great wizard - according to legend - saved the infant Arthur from the waves.

Now this was a family visit rather than a photoshoot, but with magic in the air I managed to borrow Karen’s wee camera and fire off a few shots of Merlin’s Cave. Since nothing is quite what it seems with Merlin (or the wider world of myth and mischief), one of them somehow ended up as an abstract…

Early on in the holiday, Karen and I (and doggies) found a particularly fine local beach at a place known as Trebarwith Strand. It was low tide when we visited, allowing us to enjoy the wide expanse of sand and explore a nearby cave.

Surrounded by such compelling coastal scenery, and with Gull Rock providing an obvious offshore subject, I decided to return the following day for a Twilight Challenge-style sunset shoot. I knew the tide would be relatively high, but my priority was to time my trip for sunset and see what I could capture.

The images which ensued are not necessarily my best - but I’d like to say a few words about the story behind them, and to share some lessons which have been reinforced as a result. For the truth is, what should have been an innocuous sunset shoot on an easily-accessible beach turned out to be the riskiest photo session I’ve ever embarked upon. In fact, mostly due to my own poor judgement, it’s right up there with the hairiest mountain (mis)adventures of my youth! :-0

I felt a little self-conscious at setting up my tripod here… after all, it wasn’t really my vantage point. But I noticed that, if I carried on by clambering more steeply down, I could skirt the waves and continue round a small rocky promontory. Though the gap between tide and cliff was narrowing in this direction, I could see that it would lead to a more interesting foreground, allowing the sun to drop behind a blocky islet just to the left of Gull Rock. So off I went, blindly chasing the sunset…

I soon found myself hopping across large boulders, which I realised the still-rising tide would consume within minutes. I obviously had to be careful here, and scanned the cliff before committing myself. Thankfully, I saw that I could comfortably return at a slightly higher level, where an easy-angled ledge abutted the rockface above. I proceeded with caution.

Upon attaining a suitable angle for the sunset (conveniently where surf and turf barred further progress!), I hurriedly set up my tripod and fitted my wide-angle lens. As I fired off some shots, the tide advanced ever closer. Even my higher-level escape route was beginning to look decidedly perilous. Time, as they say, was clearly of the essence. Abandoning plans to experiment with bracketing or filters, I snatched up my tripod (camera still attached) and beat a hasty retreat…

I was soon on all fours, then slithering on my stomach, in an increasingly desperate attempt to gain purchase. The slime quickly transferred to my hands, so I donned gloves in the vain hope that this might improve my grip. I swung my tripod and (towel-clad) camera like an ice-axe, trying forlornly to extend my reach and hook some nook or cranny. I didn’t have far to go, yet each yard of progress felt like a country mile.

The crux was a smooth inclined slab with no discernible holds. It culminated in a step up to a drier section of rock (Hallelujah!), to which I gingerly pushed my tripod. The trouble was, to cross the slab I would have to commit to a kind-of holdless wriggle - and when friction failed (as I instinctively knew it would), I would be sent tobogganing down the rock into the boulders and breakers below.

Then I saw it… a little way down the angled slab, a lone limpet had attached itself to the rock (as limpets do). It only presented a couple of square centimetres to the world - not much to aim for when wearing Wellington boots - yet this morsel of mollusk amounted to the only non-slimy bobble in the neighbourhood.

It was a textbook case of “Beggars can’t be choosers” (or perhaps, given the nautical theme, “Any port in a storm”)!

The tourists did a double take when I emerged back at the broad rock platform, covered in slime and spray. I nodded nonchalantly (or so I imagined), as though everything was under control. I even stood up my tripod and took another shot, though in truth this was partly a show of normality and partly an excuse to slump down and compose myself. More pragmatically, it was also a check to see whether my camera had been broken by its impromptu use as a climbing hammer. (I thought it had at first, as I couldn’t change the aperture setting - though it turned out that my flailing had simply knocked a lens switch!)

So what lessons did I learn from all of this? Well, most obviously, don’t mess with a rising tide. Just don’t. Or if you do, make sure you really know the lie of the land, like the back of your (slimy) hand.

Also, you don’t always have to find an original composition. Sometimes, folk will gather somewhere because it offers a good view and a safe location. Embrace it. And yes, it’s possible that my final sunset shot (captured from the safe location) might just be my favourite. It’s somehow less cluttered, and avoids blown out highlights around the sun. So perhaps - as is so often the case - the thing that I was looking for was right in front of me the whole time.

Sundown Silhouettes - Beating the Blues at Boscastle

I find that the final couple days of a holiday can be bittersweet, as we battle to stay one step ahead of those end-of-break blues. Keeping active is a good way of combating this feeling, which in my case often means signing off with a last-gasp photoshoot!

For this particular break, the dramatic harbour mouth at Boscastle was worthy of shoots on my final two evenings. In between, we even embarked upon a family day-trip to the village. Overkill, perhaps, yet it usually takes a few visits to really get a feel for a place.

And so it would prove, for I would end up being much more enthused by a concluding batch of ad-hoc images - which I’d arrived at organically, almost by accident - than by the iconic (though ultimately forced) view which I’d set out to capture.

Arran has indeed become a Home From Home to us over recent years, though I must admit that my use of this phrase here is a little tongue-in-cheek. On numerous occasions, Karen has been subjected to my mini-rants about people’s description of our various holiday cottages as a Home From Home (or Home Away From Home) in their respective Visitor Books. It’s lazy and clichéd writing, I’ve protested. And OK, my protests have been lodged ironically - these are comments by random guests, not Booker Prize nominees - but nonetheless, there’s just enough truth behind it to suggest that my own adoption of the cliché should also be ironic!

As for my cheesy sub-heading, Re-align to Island Time… well, this references a well-worn tag-line - Island Time, In No Time - which is plastered over various information boards on the local CalMac ferries. With its snappy promise of fast passage to the relaxed pace of island life, I suspect this slogan raises a wry smile (or worse) amongst regular passengers, who over recent months have witnessed a headline-grabbing decline in reliability of the service.

Our own fast passage to Arran’s Island Time would prove to be cruelly delayed on this particular holiday, when - after making good time to Ardrossan and queueing for an early ferry - the vehicle immediately in front of us took the last available slot on the car deck. Still, it is from such adversity (first world problems, I know) that great holidays are born! ;-)

I’ll now move on to consider the Interior of Arran in a little more detail, focusing on some images of her waterfalls and forests. I’ll then surf along to the coast - to Arran’s seashore and sealife - before crash-landing, almost inevitably, back amongst the rugged heights of Glen Sannox. And Sannox will lead me to a macabre addendum, in which I’ll briefly explore the history and intrigue surrounding the gruesome Goatfell Murder. Or was it murder? This is where the intrigue comes in!

Although our holiday accommodation was very much centred on Arran’s southern shoreline, I tentatively turned to the island’s interior - to its forests and waterfalls - for my initial camera excursions.

My first photoshoot was of Eas Mòr Wood, which fringes a deep-cut burn on the hilly slopes above Kildonan. I’d been here before, but this time I wanted to leave the beaten track and try a form of ‘canyoning’, forging my way along the stream bed into the verdant semi-wilderness of the forest. I slid, scrambled and waded as far as a fallen tree, its bulk resembling a giant squid which had somehow been beached in front of a mini-waterfall. Whether or not this tree made a squid-like noise as it fell remains one of life’s imponderable mysteries!

During my return I experimented with some slightly more intimate (macro) shots, including an upside-down forest spider which I felt served as a miniature, animated version of the fallen squid-tree. There was also plenty of wild garlic (more than enough to keep the vampires away!).

It’s curiously typical of Scotland’s fickle climate that the start of our holiday seemed to alternate between days of sun and days of rain. To my mind, this keeps things interesting… and even the rainy days can be photogenic, as evidenced by the bulging West Kildonan Waterfall which I re-visited and captured (just about!) during a break between downpours.

A similarly wet excursion was spent locating a lone tree which I’d spotted on a secluded hillside above Lamlash. I’d hoped that this might provide a distinctive foreground to Holy Isle (or some other grand vista), though in truth it turned out to be a literal damp squib (i.e. literally damp; not a literal squib!). Holy Isle was barely visible through the murk, and anyway the angles seemed all wrong (even if my lens hadn’t been spattered with rain!). I ended up with an uninspiring silhouette, which I attempted to jazz up a little through some arty post-processing!

Wedged between West Kildonan Waterfall and the Lamlash Lone Tree - chronologically speaking - is my final photoshoot of this Arran Interiors section, at Glenashdale Falls and Forest. This shoot was also largely undertaken in the rain… which, come to think of it, dominated my early photographic forays slightly more than I’d realised! :-(

Like Eas Mòr Wood and West Kildonan Waterfall, this would be a repeat visit for me - but for this holiday, I was hoping to garnish some old favourites with new moods or fresh compositions. In the case of Glenashdale, my plan was to keep low to the river, approaching the double falls from below rather than re-shooting them from the high wooden platform which forms a fine yet unoriginal viewpoint. Maybe I’d find some fast-flowing cascades as foreground?

Unfortunately, my intended approach - so easily planned on the map - proved to be next to impossible on the ground. The falls are situated in quite a ravine, whose lower reaches are guarded by thick vegetation and vertiginous drops. After being beaten back a couple of times, I once again found myself at the ubiquitous viewing platform!

The silver lining was that this prompted me to search for a more intimate composition, eventually locating a bluebell on the bank of Glenashdale’s Iron Age Fort. On that bluebell was a raindrop; and in the raindrop was an inverted image of the forest itself!

If you’ll excuse the mixed metaphors, Surf and Sealife is really the ‘bread and butter’ of my Arran photographic experience. Not only were we staying just a pebble’s throw from the beach (at Kildonan), but all of Arran’s main settlements are basically seaside communities, strung out along a single coastal road which weaves, sometimes bumpily, around the island’s extremity. And more to the point, we love the sea, its changing moods and wildlife being an ever-present source of fascination and wonder. Sometimes, if you’re good, there’s even ice-cream to be had!

I’ve alluded above to the bumpy roads… and I speak from experience, as it was during our middle weekend that part of our car suspension fell off while motoring merrily toward the summit of the String Road! To be fair, I don’t blame the island for this - the car’s service was overdue, and we’d been hearing suspicious rattles since racing through the North of England on our upward journey. Still, this wee episode resulted in our grounding for a couple of days at our Kildonan cottage, while we waited for the relevant coiled spring to arrive at Whiting Bay Garage (who did a great job, by the way!). This further skewed our holiday photo opportunities toward the coast, which - when you’re staying somewhere like Arran - is never really a hardship! ;-)

I’ll conclude this brief introduction to Surf and Sealife with a handful of holiday snaps from our Kildonan base.

The colonial panache of Drimla Lodge has been ever-present for our past few holidays; indeed, it cropped up in last year’s highlights in ‘astro’ guise under the melodramatic moniker of Spooky Mansion. It remains deserted and a little spooky, offering a ghostly call-back to the extravagant Clark family who commissioned it in the late 1800s. That’s Clark as in the shoe dynasty (so it’s apt they were evidently so well heeled!).

The matching Flower and Tower Pladda pics (alternately focusing on flower & tower) were belatedly snapped from our driveway as I packed up the car to leave. They were taken as a nod to my friend Rod Ismay, who specialises in this type of creative scene over in sunny Yorkshire (#flowersandtowers).

I don’t get to traverse mountain rooflines much nowadays, yet hill-country remains my most compelling inspiration for dabbling in landscape photography. As I grow older, I’m conscious that my ability to wander the heights will only diminish… but maybe (so the theory goes) I can still potter round the glens, soaking up the mountain ambience with camera in hand?

I’ve previously written about Arran’s interlocking pair of ‘great glens’, Rosa and Sannox. These are, in fact, two of the finest mountain valleys in the whole of Scotland (and therefore the UK), offering not only scenic grandeur but genuinely thrilling skylines for the keen hill-walker, scrambler or climber.

For this particular holiday, it was the turn of Glen Sannox to occupy my photographic muse. More specifically, my beady eye had spied compositions in the glen’s secluded ‘upper coire’, which nestles between the rocky ramparts of Cìr Mhòr and Caisteal Abhail. Judging by earlier imagery, I sensed that this might provide a stunning angle on Cìr Mhòr’s tapering north face, viewed from below rather than from the usual elevated viewpoint of Caisteal Abhail itself.

In the event, I was to visit Glen Sannox twice as the holiday progressed. The first of these was a family outing with Karen, Mel and the doggies, exploring the lower reaches of the glen and having some fun crossing the Sannox Burn via a chain of boulder-like stepping stones. (It might be a stretch to call this The Battle of Sannox Burn, but I never can resist a bad pun!)

Although this wasn’t actually a photoshoot, I did briefly ‘borrow’ Karen’s wee Canon to join her and Mel in snapping merrily away. More pertinently, I found the experience of sharing such a special place to be a joy in itself; after all, if the aim of photography is to share a love of nature or wilderness (however fleetingly), it’s surely even more powerful to do so in person, engendering a communal sense of just ‘being there’?

If nothing else, we all worked up an appetite for lunch - which was soon satiated in the shoreside garden of the Corrie Hotel!

By the time I returned for my Glen Sannox photoshoot, on the far side of those car suspension repairs, the final day of the holiday was already upon us. Sadly, I never did make it as far as that ‘upper coire’ (Coire na h-Uaimh). It’s the sort of destination which is always a little bit further and rougher than anticipated… and besides, the summit of Cìr Mhòr remained wreathed in grey cloud, which didn’t exactly justify the tricky-looking ascent to what was clearly a cliff-bound viewpoint. Instead, after an abortive foray onto the lower slopes of the Goatfell massif, I returned to the Sannox Burn and settled for that time-honoured watery foreground!

This proved to be a self-inflicted sequel to The Battle of Sannox Burn, for I found that I could only achieve the optimum angle by picking up my tripod and actually wading into the burn (which quickly overwhelmed my walking boots). Not only that, but in stooping to dial in camera settings, my rear end repeatedly dunked itself into the water! Still, at least I managed to avoid dropping any camera gear into the drink (though I probably threw some decidedly odd shapes while struggling with lenses and filters, etc.).

The mini-sequence below starts with four more snapshots from our family visit to Glen Sannox, then presents a couple variations from my final-day photoshoot (culminating in Calm Before the Storm). As for that ‘upper coire’… well, there’s always next time! :-)

At the risk of ending on a ghoulish note, this account wouldn’t be complete without mention of our visit to Sannox Cemetery and the story associated with its most notorious grave - so please do read on for a brief history of the grisly Goatfell Murder of 1889!

Before bidding farewell to Glen Sannox and concluding my 2023 Arran gallery, I wanted to share just a couple more newly-taken shots - but since these depict an old grave in Sannox Cemetery, it’s only right that I should first set the scene with a little historical context. And when I say ‘historical context’, that’s actually quite a sedate way of putting it… others, more inclined to melodrama, might call this A Sordid Tale of Murder and Mayhem in the Mountains (though the ‘murder’ part remains open to question). Either way, the location and age of this grim affair certainly make it a ‘cold case’! :-0

For greater depth - perhaps a more ‘compelling telling’ of this tale - please see my latest illustrated blog, The Curious Case of Rose and Laurie (available from March 2024).

Or, for even more detail, I can recommend Calum Smith’s 2020 book, The Goatfell Murder (available in all good bookstores… and no, I’m not on commission!).

Since this particular page is supposed to be my 2023 Gallery, I’ll keep things relatively concise… although I will cheat slightly by bringing in some earlier hill-walking snaps which depict the scene of the crime (as it were).

The incident occurs in July of 1889. Around the Firth of Clyde, this is the golden age of the paddle steamer. The annual Glasgow Fair heralds an exodus of city-dwellers, escaping the industrial smog for the fresh air and calming waters of the coast. But while the summer tourism boom is largely fed by locals, some visitors come from further afield… such as a 32-year-old English tourist named Edwin Robert Rose.

Edwin - known to family and friends as Ned - has taken up residence at an exclusive seafront hotel in Rothesay, on the Isle of Bute. He is a builder’s clerk on a welcome break from London, where Jack the Ripper has been terrorising the neighbourhood for the past year or so. By all accounts Ned is an affable chap, a well groomed single man with luxuriant Victorian moustache. He is teetotal, as befits his Sunday school affiliations, yet carries a hip-flask for ‘medicinal’ purposes (suggesting that he also carries a twinkle in his eye!).

Taking a boat-trip to the renowned Isle of Arran, Ned engages in conversation with a like-minded traveler: a 28-year-old pattern-maker from Glasgow who introduces himself as John Annandale. Both are natty dressers, perhaps drawn to the high life. And this might even be a literal high life, for both are also drawn to the jagged profile of Arran’s northern mountains. They provide an obvious challenge to anyone seeking adventure, bringing a wedge of Highland wilderness to the otherwise genteel surroundings.

Despite forming such a quickfire friendship, the two men are actually strangers to each other. This leaves plenty of room for secrets - and unbeknownst to Ned Rose, John isn’t really called Annandale. As far as we know, Ned never does discover his companion’s true identity: John Watson Laurie, a part-time petty thief who adopts a pseudonym for nefarious purposes. Indeed, when Laurie (a.k.a. Annandale) steps ashore on Arran, he does so clutching a conspicuous yellow holdall which he’s believed to have ‘acquired’ from a hapless fellow passenger on the steamer. From the outset, it’s possible that Ned - who gives the appearance of being wealthier than he actually is - is being groomed for similar treatment.

They are joined on Arran by a couple of other new-found pals from Ned’s Rothesay retreat, and time seems to pass in a social whirl. They see the sights (Ned is excited by Glen Rosa), play billiards (sampling the decadent Douglas Hotel), and are introduced to high-flying ‘friends of friends’ (including a shindig on a private yacht). Laurie, however, seems slightly withdrawn, complaining of toothache and sometimes disappearing for a while. He also hints that Ned has imposed himself for the duration of their visit.

Notwithstanding Laurie’s apparent wavering, he and Ned plan to ascend Goatfell on their final day together. One of their mutual acquaintances advises Ned against it - using the Victorian vernacular, he claims that Laurie is ‘not a clean potato’. But Ned evidently wants to climb Goatfell, and this is his sole opportunity before returning home to London.

The next confirmed sighting of Laurie is close to 10pm that evening. Just down off the hill, he turns up for ‘last orders’ at the Corrie Hotel, where he chats with local campers. Aside from failing to mention his missing companion, he doesn’t appear to behave suspiciously - and strangely, given later accusations, there is no sign of blood on his person or attire.

Suitably refreshed, Laurie leaves on foot for a late night trek back to Brodick. He departs his lodgings early the following morning, without settling his bill. He is seen on the Arran ferry with two bags, presumed to be his own (the one stolen earlier) and Ned’s. Initially returning to Glasgow, Laurie then resumes his holiday in Rothesay - where, bizarrely, he is observed wearing his absent friend’s tennis suit and yachting cap.

Ned’s disappearance at first goes unnoticed - however, being from a close family of seven siblings, this won’t be the case for long. Three days after his ill-fated climb, he is due to meet one of his brothers at a London train station. When he fails to arrive, frantic enquiries are made. It is quickly established that Ned has not been seen since attempting Goatfell with a man named Annandale - who did return, only to flee his lodgings. The Rose clan, with Arran police, rally over 200 volunteers for a painstaking search of the Goatfell range.

The initial searches draw a blank - there’s a lot of ground to cover, much of it treacherous - but on the afternoon of Sunday 4th August, almost three weeks since Ned went missing, a gruesome discovery is made.

This would usually be put down to a simple mountaineering accident, albeit an especially horrific one for poor Ned and his family.

And yet… there is clearly more to it than this. Upon discovery, it immediately becomes apparent that Ned’s remains have not come to rest naturally beneath the boulder. He has been secreted here, and a deliberate attempt has been made to conceal the corpse. The entrance to the hidey-hole - known to hill-folk as a howff - is blocked by stones, leaving just a protruding arm. Some of the stones are actually on top of the body, as though crudely and coldly burying it. Rather than visual confirmation, it is the unfortunate odour of decomposition which gives the game away to the Corrie fisherman who is first on the scene.

Furthermore, Ned’s pockets have been turned out. It seems that he has been robbed, most likely posthumously. He is known to have carried a gold watch and chain, for example, which is conspicuous by its absence.

Perhaps influenced by this litany of suspicious evidence, the doctors who examine Ned’s body conclude that his head injuries are the result of repeated blows from a heavy instrument, such as a rock. Other medical experts disagree, pronouncing the trauma consistent with a serious fall. But even if the latter is true: did he fall, or was he pushed?

We may never know the answer to this. We do know, however, that Laurie’s behaviour in the aftermath of the incident continues to elicit suspicion (to put it mildly). Upon learning that a search is underway for a missing English tourist on Goatfell, Laurie immediately quits his job and goes on the run. Leaving Glasgow - and his nearby home town of Coatbridge - he remains a fugitive for a number of weeks, travelling throughout the UK and Ireland. Laurie knows the game is up when police discover that he is synonymous with the mysterious Annandale. Despite this, while evading the law, he protests his innocence in letters to the press.

The hunt for Laurie garners national interest, for a while usurping even Jack the Ripper on the front pages. Laurie is finally captured in Lanarkshire on 3rd September (1889). Upon being cornered by police, he unsuccessfully attempts suicide with a razorblade. He also exclaims what might possibly be a summary of the entire case: “I robbed the man but I did not murder him!”

The Scottish court disagrees, though Laurie’s murder conviction is by the slimmest of margins (8 Guilty verdicts against 7 Not Proven). He is initially sentenced to hang, though this is commuted to life imprisonment on grounds akin to insanity. By the time he dies in 1930, still incarcerated at the grand old age of 69, Laurie has become Scotland’s longest-serving prisoner.

Such deliberate placement clearly doesn’t fit with the ‘random fall’ theory, nor with the scenario of a robber (potentially murderer) clearing up the scene of a crime. So what had happened here?

Alas, we can only really speculate. Maybe Ned had rested in the lee of the crag, donning a waterproof (say), and pinned down his cap to prevent it blowing away. Or maybe Laurie (or someone else?), tidying the scene after the incident, found the cap and stashed it to pick up later (after concealing Ned’s body). Perhaps it had even been positioned to mark the best line of ascent, which could be relevant in fading light if a fleeing perpetrator intended to re-attain the skyline before descending on the far side of the ridge via the established Corrie path. (This route is arguably Laurie’s best means of reaching the Corrie Hotel for 10pm.)

Or… maybe the ‘19-foot drop’ is indeed the scene of Ned’s fatal fall, and the cap was left behind as a kind of makeshift shrine. If so, it’s intriguing to consider that the incredibly callous act of plundering Ned’s pockets and hiding his body might have been offset by just a shred of humanity. Or maybe that’s naïve wishful thinking on my part?

At the risk of sounding flippant, the other attire-related anomaly is a little more humorous (at least with the passage of time). It concerns Ned’s boots, which were removed prior to the funeral and buried beneath the waterline of a local beach. This was the handiwork of an Arran police constable, who evidently subscribed to the superstition that removing and burying a murdered person’s boots prevents their restless spirit from roaming the locale.

Unfortunately, in saving Ned from his fate of forever haunting the neighbourhood, the police had inadvertently disposed of key evidence. Forensic science was in its infancy at this point, yet it quickly transpired that analysis of the boot nails may have helped to establish whether a fatal slip had occurred on the Goatfell granite.

In more senses than one, this must truly have been a ‘sole-destroying’ experience! ;-)

So now I think I have come full circle, and can return to the sanctuary of Sannox Cemetery. Hopefully the above background details help to explain why, after so many years, the contemplative act of visiting Ned Rose’s grave can be so moving. And as I write this, on 15th July, I’m conscious of the extra poignancy brought about by the anniversary of Ned’s death. 1889 to 2023. 134 years. Blimey - how time moves on! (So much changes, and yet so little…)

I actually thought Ned’s grave might be hard to find, but it’s not far from the cemetery gates. It’s also highly distinctive, on account of the hefty granite boulder which was heaved down from Glen Sannox on the first anniversary of his burial. Given that poor Ned was originally deposited beneath a similar (larger) boulder, it could be argued that this unsubtle adornment is in dubious taste. Still, it aligned with the wishes of his family, and does forever link him to the wild landscape which he so wanted to explore.

The location is a suitably tranquil one, and beautiful too. But the thing which most struck me was the abundance of coins, trinkets and flowers which, even now, are left as offerings atop Ned’s final resting place. Arran is first and foremost a peaceful place, and the violent death of a tourist must have sent shock waves through its close-knit island community. Perhaps because of this - and no doubt due to the strange nature of his demise - Ned has never been forgotten. His grave serves as an eternal shrine.

Like the mystery of his death, the memory of Edwin R Rose lives on.

For the record, I stand by my earlier promotion of home photography. Yet there’s also no denying that, after returning from Arran in late May, I would unfortunately enter a dearth of creativity for much of the summer.

I could list various reasons for this - work hassles, family life, wet weather, website tinkering; even a tantalising wait (so far in vain) for a carbon-fibre tripod - but the fact is, they all sound a little like excuses. I really should do better at simply getting out there with a camera and enjoying myself; in short, seeking out new images instead of over-analysing old ones.

Having said all of that, I do find that a conscious rationing of photography helps to sharpen the appetite. So let’s go with that, and look forward with excitement to the Western Highlands in September (though without any undue pressure, of course!).

But returning for a moment to my summer photography drought… this was, in fact, only broken in July, when Karen and I celebrated our 12th anniversary. I borrowed Karen’s wee Canon to mark the occasion with a couple of family shots in our back garden, which I later combined into a quick two-pic collage.

And yes, I hadn’t intended this website to double as a family photo album. But since this image garnered by far the most ‘likes’ of any pic I’ve ever posted to Facebook (clearly thanks to Karen and the doggies, not the photographer!), it serves as a salutary reminder that personal stories quite rightly trump my pretensions of anything more artistic.

Either that, or a lot of people online were laughing pretty hard at my hapless attempt to carry off an Indiana Jones hat! :-0

In the event it was still too windy to harbour much in the way of flying insects, and any riverside flowers (which so often serve as ornate landing pads) were being whipped around mercilessly. I wandered about aimlessly, almost returning empty handed. Yet at such times, when compositions seem to dry up, it can be good to simply stand still and observe - to let the images come to you, rather than the other way around. So, before heading back, I waited beside a bare log to see whether anything would appear.

And after a while, my eyes - and lens - adjusted in scale to pick out a couple of tiny flies and grasshoppers.

Not exactly the Serengeti, but it would have to do! :-)

I’ve titled this chapter The Magic of Moidart because that’s where we were based - a remote part of Moidart, in the magical Western Highlands of Scotland.

Our home for the fortnight was a cottage called Scarduish, which nestled idyllically between craggy wooded hills and a scenic sea loch. Just around the corner was a ruined castle on a tidal islet, while eagles soared overhead and a herd of red deer would visit our garden at night (much to the astonishment of our doggies!).

Before I wax too poetic, I should concede that our idyll was a tad isolated for your typical family holiday - yet there’s also no denying that it was a landscape photographer’s dream!

Surrounded by all this beauty, local images of Moidart do indeed feature prominently in the selection below. However, it’s not all about Moidart - we would also venture north to Morar, east to Ardgour, south to Ardnamurchan, and even west to the enigmatic Isle of Eigg.

In theory, the photos should speak for themselves - but for those who like to know more, hopefully my comments and captions will fill in most of the gaps.

As for the Magic part of the title… well, the location may have been remote, but it was certainly magical being there. I’ll be content if just a small part of this magic (“not a lot!”) is conveyed on camera! :-)

And when I say ‘people shots’, it’s only right and proper that doggies should be included as well - after all, our canine companions (Moogie and Rocky) do tend to place themselves above yours truly in the family packing order! :-0

It’s also worth noting that some of my favourite locations of the holiday - for example, Ardnamurchan Point, Sanna Bay, and the Silver Sands of Morar - were only visited in the context of daytime family excursions, when I wasn’t conducting my own photography. I’m therefore grateful to Karen (my long-suffering better half), plus our venerable holiday guests (Loraine and Melissa), for taking some meaningful and inspired shots. A heartfelt thank you to all, both for the pictures themselves and of course for the wonderful memories which they encapsulate and enhance! :-)

As a quick technical note, almost all of the images in this section (except for the occasional mobile phone foray) were shot using Karen’s wee Canon on auto mode (effectively employing a ‘point and shoot’ approach). This generates JPEG files, to which I later applied basic post-processing using Picasa (instead of Lightroom, which I use when shooting in RAW with my Fuji).

Although I was supposed to be acting under photographic curfew outside of my sanctioned ‘photoshoots’, I must admit that I did sometimes ‘borrow’ Karen’s wee camera myself (with permission, naturally!). Where not taken by me, the images presented below will be credited to the appropriate photographer (again, with thanks!)…

So there we have it… a whistle-stop tour of our holiday, as told through the all-seeing lens of an ad-hoc family album.

I’ll now rewind slightly and re-play events via my Fuji X-T3 photoshoots, which in theory at least are a little more ‘organised’ in nature (though I use the word loosely!).

As an aside, some of the Fuji images which follow are still of a documentary nature, and indeed you might spot a handful of ‘people’ shots sprinkled amongst the scenery. Portraits amongst the landscapes, as it were!

Some of my photoshoot vistas - especially those around Scarduish and Loch Moidart - may also be familiar from the family album, so please remember to act surprised if anything seems a bit ‘old hat’. Rest assured that newer material, from fresh venues, will remain within scrolling range!

Oh, and I’ll add a few words along the way, in the hope that the stories behind the images might give a broader context to their creation. Perhaps these explanations will even raise the odd smile, though probably not where intended (that’s all part of the fun)! ;-)

A modest helping of Home Turf (meaning pictures of our Moidart holiday locale) is featured in the ‘family album’ compilation above. For this particular section, my intent is to expand this selection by focusing on photos taken around Loch Moidart and Scarduish (our holiday cottage) using my Fuji X-T3.

The choice of camera doesn’t matter, of course - it’s ultimately just a tool - but more significantly, use of my Fuji usually signifies a change of mindset to one in which I think less in terms of casual holiday snaps and more in terms of planned ‘photoshoots’.

Describing it in this way does seem a little grandiose (even to me!), so I should emphasise that the resulting images are not necessarily better or more interesting. It just means that I consciously slow down and choose my compositions more carefully, generally showcasing landscapes (or seascapes) which really grab my attention. I might also venture out at favoured times of day such as ‘golden hour’ (sunrise or sunset), and will typically expand my technical options by carrying extra gear such as lenses, filters and a tripod.

Ironically, the reason I’m reiterating my usual method of conducting ‘photoshoots’ is because, for this Scotland trip, I fairly frequently bucked the trend and used my Fuji for on-the-move, documentary-style photography.

In particular, a few of my lengthier excursions - ascents of the Sgùrr of Eigg and Ben Hiant, for example, plus a local circular jaunt in which Mel and I stumbled across the abandoned village of Port a' Bhàta - were basically walks with a camera in tow, as opposed to planned shoots which involved walking.

And actually, some of our jaunts involved not only walking but wading, as illustrated here by Mel (negotiating the rising tide while returning from a shrinking spit of land at Shielfoot!)…

The Cottage (“Scarduish, Scaramouche, Will you do the Fandango?”)

Before explaining the Castle and Clown of my title, I should again acknowledge the place which put the Home into Home Turf: our holiday cottage.

I needn’t say too much more about Scarduish, our cosy hideaway overlooking Loch Moidart - except to affirm that, if you like remoteness and breathtaking scenery, it was the most dramatically-situated property I’ve ever stayed in!

All of the pictures from the mini-section below are either of Scarduish, or they were taken from its well-manicured garden… whose views included sunsets, red deer and occasional passing eagles (both white-tailed and golden).

Talking of deer and eagles, this holiday emphasised to me that I only really dabble in wildlife photography - it is landscapes and wilderness which have truly inspired me since childhood, and which occasionally motivate me to roll out of bed at some ungodly hour. Much as I love animals, I feel that others are better qualified to rustle up the magic in this area. Nonetheless, the Scottish Highlands boast an impressive array of wildlife, and there is something undeniably stirring - exciting, even - about a close encounter with a roaming deer or a soaring bird of prey. I was pleased to balance this holiday collection by capturing both on camera (however briefly and modestly) from the fertile stomping-grounds of Scarduish.

The Castle and The Clown (Eilean Tioram and The Stranded Tourist)

The most celebrated feature in the vicinity of our secluded Highland hideaway - I’d almost go so far as to call it a tourist attraction - is undoubtedly Castle Tioram (Cheerum), whose ruined ramparts adorn a tidal islet in Loch Moidart.

Being an obvious subject for landscape photography, our first vibrant sunset found me wandering down to the castle and setting up my tripod on the sandy shore. The tide was high, so I moved as close as I could to the flooded causeway and dialled in a long exposure, hoping to smooth the water and bring out the sky’s orange glow. I completed framing my composition, admired the peaceful solitude, and prepared to release the shutter.

It was as tranquil a scene as I could imagine - until, from somewhere in the gloaming, I heard an exasperated shout and a stomping of feet. A man appeared across the water on Eilean Tioram, evidently having visited the castle and been cut off by the rising tide. He then proceeded to strip off and splash noisily through my composition, cursing loudly until he spotted me and pretended that everything was under control. We said a muted “Hello” to each other as he waded onto the beach and scurried off, dripping, into the twilight.

Anyway, the clown* didn’t drown, the water settled, and I belatedly fired off a couple of shots. What better way to spend an evening? :-)

Twisting by the Pool

Before moving on from the River Shiel, I was keen to photograph the ancient Old Shiel Bridge, a beautifully historic structure which thankfully remains the preserve of pedestrians, wildlife and occasional water sprites?

With conditions now a little greyer than I’d have liked, I decide to spice up this shoot by trying some ICM (i.e. Intentional Camera Movement). I was still using a tripod to ‘bake in’ the core of the image, but then rotating it right at the end of the exposure in search of something vaguely swirly or otherwise abstract.

A couple of ICM examples are presented below. These have been post-processed in Lightroom to adjust the contrast, etc. (my standard procedure when shooting in RAW format), though the effects (such as they are) were captured fully in-camera.

I know many folk are a little wary of abstracts (it’s the reason I can never again take my family to the Tate Modern!), so an equivalent ‘traditional’ shot of the bridge is shown first for posterity (and perhaps for safety).

The traditional shot is OK, I suppose, though I did warn you that the light wasn’t great! :-(

I wish I could claim that visiting the enigmatic Isle of Eigg, and ascending its remarkable Sgùrr, had been a lifetime’s ambition. Being a long-time lover of Scotland’s Highlands and Islands, it really should have been. But the truth is, it had never actually occurred to me that I’d get the opportunity. It was only when Karen gently nudged me in this direction - suggesting a day-trip on my behalf - that the excitement began to build. And if I’d never previously dreamt of this adventure, I suppose you could say it fulfilled the cliché of being beyond my wildest dreams!

To add some context: the Sgùrr of Eigg (more properly known as An Sgùrr) is not particularly high by Highland standards, clocking in at just under 1,300 feet. Yet viewed from certain angles, it’s surely the most spectacular chunk of rock anywhere in the British Isles. Its volcanic ramparts look impregnable from end on, almost otherworldly, and indeed I sometimes think of it as Scotland’s answer to the Devil’s Tower (of Close Encounters fame).

The timings of the boat trip (from Arisaig) left just enough time to ascend the Sgùrr and return for the voyage home - provided, that is, I travelled light and didn’t faff too much with camera gear. Missing the boat would certainly result in an Eigg-on-face moment! So I effectively faced a dilemma: should I prioritise a nice steady ‘photoshoot’, seeking a perfect angle of An Sgùrr from the safety of the shore… or risk the ascent and revert to a rapid, documentary style of photography? In the end, it had to be the latter: the Lure of the Sgùrr was just too great! ;-)

And then there’s Ben Hiant. Rising above the fjord-like Loch Sunart, this is a little gem of a peak whose character is summed up by its name: Holy Hill.*

*(I may have implied to Karen that Ben Hiant was so called because a rare breed of High Ant had been discovered on its summit - for this, I can only apologise!) ;-0

Now Ben Hiant may be modest in stature - at just over 1,700 feet it’s more of a hill than a mountain - yet it dominates the peninsula and offers particularly fine views. I also found the hill itself to be very beautiful, with smooth green contours and an alluring hint of craggy steepness. In short, well worth climbing!

I set off early on the morning of my ascent, choosing to travel light: as with the Sgùrr of Eigg a couple of days previously, this would be a hill-walk first and photoshoot second. I did, however, switch from wide-angle to telephoto lens on the summit, the idea being to ‘reach in’ to the view and highlight anything of interest which might otherwise be lost to the background noise. This led to my favourite shot of the day, The Wild West, in which the hazy hills of Moidart form a backdrop to a lurking ‘rock monster’. This image concludes the Ben Hiant mini-selection presented below…

(Incidentally, no High Ants were detected in the vicinity of the summit!) ;-)

Having travelled all the way to Mallaig, we decided to break our return journey at nearby Loch Morar. This holds the distinction of being the UK’s deepest body of fresh water, plummeting to gloomy depths of over 1,000 feet. It is also the lair of an alleged loch monster named Morag, an elusive and lesser-known cousin of Nessie (Loch Ness being the country’s second deepest).

Sadly the deteriorating weather must have grounded Morag too, for we didn’t spot her. In fact, striking as Loch Morar is, my pictures indicate that I didn’t spot much! Given the circumstances - the disappointment of Rùm and the pull to get home - it’s not surprising that I wasn’t overly inspired. I was pleased to visit though, and to plant both Morar and Rùm on my photographic bucket list!

I hadn’t regretted this ad-hoc turnaround, as it had seemed right at the time - and besides, I’d witnessed a magical dawn across the misty loch. Yet as the end of our holiday drew ever nearer, it became evident that I’d probably missed my opportunity: Garbh Bheinn would have to await another year entirely, if indeed I ever returned to this beautiful but remote corner of the Highlands.

Salvation came after lunch at Scarduish on our concluding day, when we’d usually be squeezing the final ounce of value out of a family day-trip, or even starting the dreaded packing. Perhaps caught between these two stools, or maybe just wanting me out of the way for a while (hard to believe, but it has been known!), Karen suggested that I head out for one last hurrah with my camera.

If I’m honest, the light wasn’t great for photography - the afternoon conditions were a little grey, lacking the colour and contrast which dedicated (i.e. obsessive) photographers often seek around dawn or dusk. But beggars can’t be choosers, and I knew without hesitation - despite having a few unfulfilled locations on my Western Highland bucket list - that Garbh Bheinn would exert an irresistibly magnetic pull.

So I jumped into the car and drove, this time motoring straight on through Acharacle with eyes only for Ardgour. (Actually, that’s not quite true… I did stop off to deposit some end-of-holiday empties at the village’s bottle recycling, but let’s not detract from the romance of my story!)

My afternoon commute hugged the shore of Loch Sunart, skimmed Strontian and bisected Glen Tarbert. Parking up at last, I tried to recall landmarks from my previous visit roughly two decades earlier. Yes, I recognised the rocky lower slopes of Garbh Bheinn: this was certainly the right place. But while the scenery was as striking as I’d remembered, I must admit that the walk-in proved to be a little longer, flatter and muddier. In my mind, the gurgling mountain stream raced all the way down to the road… but in reality, I had to walk some distance into the hills before finding the type of terrain - the mini-waterfalls and clear pools - that I was after.

This was frustrating in that it constricted my time and rushed my photoshoot, yet it was also something of a blessing in disguise. The fact is, I was being drawn into scenery that I loved, immersing myself amongst the mountains and even feeling at home as rain began to patter down and midges came out to play.

I found myself smiling inwardly (maybe outwardly as well?) as I set up my tripod in and around the burn, scrabbling and wading around like I used to in childhood. As I did so, it dawned on me that splashing and ‘spuddling’ in mountain streams has always being one of my favourite pastimes. Thankfully, on this occasion there was nobody around to witness my shenanigans… and anyway, one of the joys of landscape photography is that it gives otherwise sensible adults permission to behave in this foolish yet liberating fashion!

But let’s be honest… we weren’t only excited, or happy and carefree. We were probably stressed and nervous too, with me running late (as usual) and my Dad worrying that weather or terrain might put heed to his carefully crafted plans. We’d both be thrilled that this was Day1 of our long-awaited hill-walking holiday, yet secretly scared not only of Garbh Bheinn herself (now ominously shrouded in mist), but also of our coming days dodging the gales and gullies of Glen Coe, Ben Nevis and Skye. Perhaps we’d be out of our depth just rubbing shoulders with the likes of the Aonach Eagach or Ledge Route? Even if not, would we tire of feeling shattered?

I think there’s possibly a paradox at work here… for if our fondest memories can seem a little rose-tinted, as though we’re filtering out the worries and hassles, then it is these same challenges which ultimately make the experience all the more rewarding. In other words, these were happy times, not in spite of the challenges, but because of them! :-)

Yet my Dad’s old Word document was now drawing me in… still scanning his notes from the autumn of 2003, I shivered as my eyes came to rest on a salutary account of ascending Marsco (Skye) in the pouring rain. The awful conditions had put the high peaks of the Cuillin well and truly out of bounds, and Marsco should have been the easy option; but I vividly recall exhausted limbs battling interminable slopes, up and up and up, culminating in the steepest and wettest grass I’d ever seen (or clung onto!). That had been the 18th of September.

Scrolling up, the day before described an epic adventure on Ben Nevis. We’d both approached the Ben’s formidable North Face, then I’d scrambled up Ledge Route and crossed the summit… before a gale roared in and I was almost blown from the Carn Mor Dearg Arête. So that was why I’d been so exhausted on Marsco (both mentally and physically)! Happy days!

The day before that - September the 16th - had seen us exploring the western summits of the notorious Aonach Eagach ridge high above Glen Coe, its razor-sharp edge cutting through the cloud like a cleaver. We’d taken a ‘rain check’ on the full ridge traverse (which seemed to evoke Mission: Impossible), though achieved what we’d set out to do (i.e. stay alive for a little longer!).

And before that - here it was at last - Garbh Bheinn of Ardgour. As realisation began to dawn, I skimmed my Dad’s account: superb mountain… boggy path… false summits (coming back to me now!)… thickening mist… rock bands… summit cairn (yippee!)… scree-filled rake… clearly off line (yep, all going wrong now!)… hidden boulders and holes… several tumbles (yikes!)… epic descent (and breathe!). And the date? The middle of September. To be precise: the 15th.

As I pondered this revelation, I remembered that I really should have re-visited Garbh Bheinn earlier in the holiday. To leave it so late was, frankly, just bad planning on my part. I’d actually set out for it a few days beforehand, only diverting to Loch Shiel on the spur of the moment. And indeed, I’d only made it to Garbh Bheinn on this final afternoon - which turned out to be the 20th anniversary - because a few free hours had unexpectedly opened up. If I were mystically inclined, I might almost call it fated!

But is it destiny - something pre-ordained by the Highland mountain gods - or mere coincidence? People will obviously have their own thoughts and pre-conceptions on this.

My own training is scientific in nature… and although I’ve always held a strong interest in quirky or (alleged) paranormal occurrences, some of my formative life experiences have made me a rationalist and a sceptic. This is not to trivialise or diminish the occurrences in question, which are usually full of wonder. The power, I think, is in the stories themselves.

So for me, the story can be both amazing and a happy coincidence. One doesn’t preclude the other, even if neither (necessarily) requires anything akin to divine intervention.

So that’s my take - but I love the fact that I may be wrong! And if I am wrong, perhaps I’ll answer to those Highland mountain gods in another 20 years? ;-)

Before I present my ‘photoshoot’ images of St. Michael’s Mount, I’ll give just a brief flavour of our broader holiday through a handful of more touristy snaps. I took these during family trips to various beaches, employing my usual sneaky trick of ‘borrowing’ Karen’s wee Canon. They mostly depict the vast expanse of Hayle Sands (near St. Ives), before calling in at Marazion itself (a partial reflection of the ‘Castle on the Mount’), then wrapping up with another joint selfie at the wonderfully wild Sennen Cove (specifically Whitesand Bay).

I should also give a (dis)honourable mention to Rocky the dog, without whom our week away just wouldn’t have been the same (it would have been more relaxing, for starters!). Moogie was enjoying a break of her own back in sunny Devon with Gran and Gramps, but Rocky accompanied us to the seaside and had a rare old time gallivanting around on the sand. The shot of him chewing his toy bone was taken at our Marazion holiday home, China Doll’s House, which made for a cosy wee bolt-hole whenever that ‘Cold November Rain’ fell.

(Weather aside, the other reason for not wanting to leave the house was the thought of squeezing our swish but bulky new motor back into its pocket-sized parking space. With all those proximity sensors going off at once, it sounded like the Starship Enterprise on red alert!) :-0

So how do I feel about my failed pledge of brevity? Again, I’m in two minds. I’ve found that my write-ups come about quite organically, emerging from the ether only because I genuinely love the places and subjects that take centre-stage in my frame. I hope that some of this sentiment is conveyed on the page… but even if not, I’m glad that I’ve at least attempted to follow my muse. If nothing else, the process itself can be cathartic.

Then again, my earlier reservations about verbose annual galleries clearly still stand. For one thing, I’ve yet to get a handle on the target audience for my website (if such a demographic even exists). Am I preparing content for fellow photography enthusiasts? Or maybe nature lovers? For Jo(e) Public generally? Or a close-knit knot of family and friends?

Aside from the latter category (who might skim-read under sufferance!), I don’t imagine many folk will be interested in the finer points of my holiday jaunts. Still, does that really matter? Perhaps I should just do this for myself… after all, my photography is purely a hobby, not a career or business. And however I play things, I’m hardly likely to attract an army of online followers. Let’s face it, the nearest I ever get to being an ‘influencer’ is when I put the recycling out promptly and remind the neighbours that tomorrow is bin day… which in Karen’s view makes me a ‘bin-fluencer’!

But despite the above wavering (some might say ‘havering’), I do plan to implement my pledge of brevity as the clock ticks over into 2024. And the reason for this is a simple practical one: my ramblings take quite a toll on my free time, meaning that I’m looking back more than I look forward. Much as I crave contemplation and nostalgia, I need to create space for exciting new adventures, photographic or otherwise.*

*That’s not to say I shouldn’t ‘blog’ occasionally - indeed, an expanded version of this page’s ‘Goatfell Murder’ account (Arran Intrigue - The Curious Case of Rose and Laurie) has been hanging around as a draft blog for a little while now. It awaits completion and publication during 2024 (touch wood!)…

But talking of looking back - and since this section is technically still considering Cornwall - it would be remiss of me to move on from 2023 without acknowledging the year’s one partial success in a photography competition. I’m actually a little wary of including this, as it’s nothing to write home about… and anyway, I’m not generally a fan of competitive photography (admittedly an easy stance to take while being rebuffed!). However, the process of occasionally entering your work can prompt some useful self-reflection, as well as adding an element of spice to proceedings (at least until results are announced and the bubble is inevitably burst!).

In my case the competition in question was decidedly parochial, being run internally by (and for) the UK Met Office. The purpose was to identify a shortlist of seven images, naturally depicting weather, each of which would be professionally printed and hung (with caption) in a refurbished meeting room at the organisation’s Exeter headquarters. So, if you think of it this way, the outcome was also the prize (as well as quenching the organiser’s quest for affordable new art!). Each entrant could submit up to five pictures for consideration by the meteorologically-inclined panel.

Now one problem with all of this is that I’m not really a ‘weather’ photographer (per se). Yes, there is often weather in my photos - and I appreciate golden light or dramatic skies as much as the next happy snapper - yet weather is rarely my primary subject. As a result, I realised that I’d need to be slightly creative in my archival selection process!

In the event, I chose four fairly recent images from Fuji X-T3 ‘photoshoots’, all of which happened to feature sky to supplement something of interest on the ground. Not necessarily my best work - and as I’ve said, perhaps not strictly weather-focused - but together they at least presented a variety of scenes and photographic techniques…

For my fifth and final submission, I threw in a token archive pic from way back in November 2014 - effectively a Cornish holiday snap from a family trip to the seaside, taken using my archaic Fuji ‘bridge’ camera on auto mode.

And yes, you’ve guessed it… the one shot which crept into the competition shortlist was my old holiday snap!*

*I should clarify that this wasn’t the outright winner, though who’s counting… it did at least qualify for exhibiting!

As for the titles and captions that we’d been asked to submit alongside each photograph… my shortlisted caption survived relatively intact (see image blurb below), though my proposed title of Any Hut in a Storm was met with confusion. In my mind, this suggested a darkly comedic tale of the foreground surfer/swimmer battling to reach the safety of the pier’s Lookout Hut, despite the fact that the storm had rendered this precarious wee structure anything but safe.

It was also (as I awkwardly explained to the panel) a play on the well-known phrase, Any Port in a Storm. Admittedly not a very good play. In fact, once this link was understood, an executive decision was taken to go with the un-punny version… so Any Port in a Storm it became (and maybe that’s for the best!).

But captions aside, this had only ever really been a token entry. So while I was delighted to end up with an artwork on display at the Met Office, the success felt somewhat bittersweet.

For one thing, although I did quite like the chosen image - the breaking wave was dynamic, the surfer (as I’ve said) suggestive of a human story - it was hardly an original concept. On top of which, if I’m honest, something about its processing or colour palette felt slightly cartoonish.

Anyway, did my most lauded example of weather photography really date from nine years ago, long before I’d started to take my muse more seriously? If I live by the oft-quoted maxim of only competing with my former self, is this a battle which I’m steadily losing?*

*I should note that the weather photography competition pre-dated my Sept 2023 Moidart trip, which may have yielded some stronger contenders… or then again, maybe not (who can say?)!

At the end of the day, though, it’s all fine… I shouldn’t over-analyse. As the pictured surfer might have put it, mere seconds after the photo was taken, “Worse things happen at sea!”.

I think the lesson here is to just let things be, and to be grateful if any of our humble offerings, from any era, are appreciated by others.

And crucially, to acknowledge that it’s folly to dwell on which of our creations might resonate with other folk - for the power of art lies not in the artefact itself, but in the way that its message interacts with each viewer (all of whom bring different sensibilities, if not senses).

And on that breaking wave of wisdom, I’ll wave a fickle farewell to 2023! ;-)

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