British mountains — Blog — Paul Edward Mann Photography

Embracing the Golden Age

Welcome to my mountain photography blog, and thank you for being here. Since this is my inaugural post, I suspect it will be part blog, part introduction (or origin-story)… so please forgive me if I begin to ramble!

I’d like to kick off with some historical context, which - if everything falls into place - will hopefully come full circle by the end…

The title “Camera on the Crags” is borrowed from an Alan Hankinson book about the celebrated Abraham Brothers of Keswick. To briefly set the scene… George and Ashley Abraham pioneered early mountain photography in the late 1800s and early 1900s, long before the advent of lightweight digital cameras. Their incredible images served not only as art but as inspiration, empowering like-minded souls to head for the hills - or at least to pause for a moment’s wonder - at a time when wilderness was generally feared rather than revered.

20100930 LLZ013 (3) Camera on the Crags.JPG — ***“Camera on the Crags”*** ***(an alternative take!)…***

A ghostly reflection of my camera falls onto the cliffs of Cloggy - one of the great Welsh climbing venues since the time of the Abraham Brothers - as viewed through a train window of Snowdon Mountain Railway.
*(Digital image, September 2010)*
*(Blog photos by Paul Mann, unless credited to Nigel Mann)*

The Abrahams explored the most vertiginous of Britain’s wild places, from their native Cumbrian crags to the giddy heights of Snowdonia and the Scottish Highlands. Their antics must have been vertigo-inducing, balancing bulky photographic plates on precarious ledges in the name of artistry - or perhaps out of sheer audacity? No mean climbers themselves, they were involved in a number of first ascents, including classic lines on Scafell Crag (the prime Lakeland proving ground) and Buachaille Etive Mor (an icon of Glen Coe, of which more later). And above all, they understood the value of depicting not only rock architecture but the human drama which was unfolding within it… adding scale and an intimate perspective to the natural grandeur of their surroundings.

As climbers, photographers and also authors, it could be argued that the Abraham Brothers were amongst the first mountaineering bloggers, publicising their feats and fuelling imaginations along the way. But of course blogs didn’t exist back then, nor camera phones, GPS navigation or gore-tex. To our eyes, their work gives the impression of a distant sepia-tinged era, far removed from our own. A time of chivalry, of tweed and hob-nailed boots. And this, I think, is part of the allure of the golden age… that sense of cosy familiarity yet indefinable remoteness, a closed chapter to which we somehow yearn to return.

But aside from my declared love of mountain photography, why have I begun by talking about the Abraham Brothers? Well, I realised when selecting images for my website that my recent pictures seldom feature real-life mountains. Other aspects of the great outdoors are there, yes, and I love these subjects too. There are moors and beaches, moons and comets, islands and archaeology… sea stacks and standing stones, birds and bees and seals… yet relatively few plunging cliffs or jagged peaks. Have I been disingenuous in claiming mountains as my muse?

And then it struck me… in the same way that there is a bygone “golden age” of mountaineering, and lost “halcyon days” of photography, it could be argued that an earlier era - a kind of rift - can also be identified in my own personal story (and that of many others). And I don’t just mean the natural ageing process (though that’s evident too!). No, I’m talking here about the digital divide which has split the world of photography - and wider society in general - over the past couple of decades.

To cut to the chase, most of my mountain excursions were conducted in a pre-digital age, when I was better suited to exploring - being younger and perhaps a little bolder - but less well equipped to record my adventures on camera. I did take photos - quite a lot of them - but had neither the gear nor the wherewithal to make them really count. And of course, they were taken on film… which is no bad thing in itself (many legitimately prefer it), but it meant that these early images were not readily available to view on digital platforms. At least, not without scanning them in, and then applying a little post-processing to correct the worst of the resulting deficiencies. Which gives them - to be generous - a somewhat “vintage” feel!

But I should probably rewind slightly at this point, and explain a little more about the origins of my mountain obsession.

I remember being drawn to high places since early childhood, as though summits exuded a strange kind of aura. My earliest experiences of hill country must have been my native Wiltshire Downs, with occasional family forays to the Cotswolds. Visits to my Dad’s home county of Somerset introduced me to the rolling Quantocks and Mendips, while my Mum’s Scottish roots - in more distant East Lothian - opened up the magical mounds of North Berwick Law and Traprain Law. None of this was really mountain territory, although I didn’t consider this at the time (and these places are no less special for it). But a summer day-trip to South Wales whetted the appetite further… I was excited to be led to the distinctive flat top of Corn Du in the Brecon Beacons, even though nearby Pen y Fan - southern Britain’s highest point - was deemed a step too far for my tiny sunburnt legs. Then, aged 7 or 8, I was taken up Skiddaw and Snowdon during successive family holidays to the Lakes and North Wales. I became well and truly hooked, in spirit if not yet in deed.

It was a few years later, while an impressionable teenager, that I stumbled across a copy of “The High Mountains of Britain and Ireland”, by Irvine Butterfield. Essentially a walkers’ guide to every 3,000-foot summit of the British Isles, it was the selection of colour photographs which really set my pulse racing. I’d already rubbed shoulders with Snowdonia and the Lakes of course, so these sections were like re-visiting old friends. But 27 of the book’s 30 chapters were set in the faraway Scottish Highlands, and many of the images had an almost surreal quality which immediately captured my attention. I can still see those pictures now in my mind’s eye. Even the names seemed romantic and otherworldly… there was an improbable rocky pyramid called Buachaille Etive Mor, a gracefully symmetric cone named Schiehallion, a square-topped fortress known as Slioch, and two primeval sandstone-tiered behemoths proudly entitled Liathach and An Teallach. A concluding chapter on The Black Cuillin of Skye, a jumble of jagged island peaks, was so unbelievable that I wondered whether shots of the Alps or Andes had been pasted into the book by mistake. Although on second thoughts, I couldn’t imagine how these exotic ranges, formidable as they were, could possibly harbour a summit worthy of the moniker Inaccessible Pinnacle. Such an accolade, I learnt early on (only half-jokingly), was the exclusive preserve of the Cuillin!

From this point on, I re-doubled my efforts at consuming mountaineering literature, which was not so easy in the pre-internet age. Nonetheless, encouraged by my parents - my Dad being a fellow mountain buff - I began to amass quite a collection of books and maps. Much of this involved accounts of derring-do in the Greater Ranges, in which acclaimed alpinists across the generations pitted their wits against altitude or avalanche. Everest loomed large, from the tragic heroics of Mallory and Irvine, through Hillary and Tenzing’s crowning glory, to the colourful “modern era” (as it was then) of Bonington, Scott and Haston. These were inspirational tales, made all the more impressive because they were so far removed in scale and aspiration from my everyday reality. Dream as I might, I knew that I would never literally stand on top of the world, nor on any of the other fantastic peaks which grace the Himalaya or Karakoram (or even the Alps). For anyone who was not on the trajectory of an elite mountaineer, these were unattainable pedestals. But the British summits… that was a different story. Perhaps Ben Nevis could be my Everest, and the Black Cuillin my Mont Blanc? And crucially, not just as substitutes for higher ranges, but because I loved these modest hills of home in their own right.

2003_Summer_Scan_Pic0450 (2) (Pic).jpg — ***My Own Personal Everest***

If Ben Nevis was my Everest, then Ledge Route would be my Hillary Step. Although fairly straightforward technically (in summer at least), the route winds its way through magnificent rock scenery on the Ben’s North Face, across and behind the precipitous Carn Dearg Buttress (background right of frame).
*Descent would prove to be just as big a challenge on this particular day, a southerly gale blowing in and broad-siding me on the CMD Arete!*
*(Film image, September 2003; photo by Nigel Mann)*

One notable crossover between Himalayan exploration and homegrown hill-craft was W.H. (Bill) Murray, a Glasgow-based climber who had joined Ed Hillary on Eric Shipton’s 1951 Everest Reconnaissance. This key recce unlocked access to the Western Cwm, laying the groundwork for John Hunt’s triumphant expedition two years later. It would, however, prove to be a rare foray into the high-altitude Himalayan world for Murray, who is better remembered as a pioneer of Scottish rock and ice routes either side of the war. And just as significantly, he would write about it with passion and panache, as I would find out when I tracked down a compendium of his classic post-war books, “Mountaineering in Scotland” (1947) and “Undiscovered Scotland” (1951).

Murray’s compendium contained some noteworthy historical photographs, and I became fascinated by its cover. This depicted a lone climber with ice axe approaching the chiselled summit of Ben Lui (“Queen of the Southern Highlands”), stoically unroped despite treading an improbably steep snow slope. But mostly, it was the power of Murray’s prose which captivated me. Each chapter would describe a real-life alpine adventure which the author embarked upon with his posse of strangely redoubtable companions, who were usually just referred to by their surnames (preceded by initials if feeling frivolous). But in their own decorous way, this small group of friends were quietly revolutionising Scottish climbing, taking on a series of challenging lines - sometimes first ascents, other times epic retreats - amongst the soaring strongholds of Glen Coe, Ben Nevis or the Cuillin. And it was all told not as a boast nor an invitation to conquer, but as a kind of spiritual love letter to the landscape… and perhaps as an ode to the aesthetic philosopher within.

Looking back now, I’m curious to observe the contrasting roles which Butterfield’s and Murray’s respective books would play in shaping my young psyche. Photos aside, the guidebook format of “The High Mountains…” had very much appealed to the orderly side of my brain. It had even prompted me to learn the exact imperial heights of a whole slew of summits… a dubious party trick which, thankfully, has since been nullified by the passage of time and the march of metric revision. But the writings of Murray accessed a different place entirely, in which heart and soul were to the fore. It was as though that abstract sense of wonder which had been stirred by the distant Highlands were perfectly articulated within Murray’s prose, magnified by the camaraderie and nostalgia which his escapades evoked. And his own underlying story, it turned out, was an incredible one.

Joining the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders at the outbreak of World War II, Murray had soon found himself posted to the Middle East and North Africa. Here, during the Western Desert Campaign of 1942, he was captured by the enemy… and promptly bonded with his captor, a German tank commander, over their shared love of mountains. This didn’t prevent Murray from spending the next three years in various Prisoner of War camps, experiencing a level of hardship and deprivation which can only be imagined. Clinging to dreams of freedom - or at least psychological escape - he took solace in the wistful glow of Scotland’s pre-war climbing grounds, prompting him to furtively reminisce by putting pen to… toilet paper. Yes, Murray was a POW, and the only paper available to him was of the soggy rolled variety! After investing so much, his initial manuscript was discovered and destroyed by the Gestapo. But undeterred - perhaps remembering Robert the Bruce’s apocryphal spider - he took it all in his stride and simply started over again.

This, then, was the genesis of Murray’s “Mountaineering in Scotland”, an unlikely classic which would somehow survive the war and be published in 1947. The story behind it - once properly digested - would help to explain the air of romance, that ethereal ethos, which I’d innocently detected behind the narrative. And yes, perhaps it was slightly overblown - the circumstances would certainly excuse rose-tinted spectacles - but what did this matter? The feeling, and the inspiration, were genuine.

20180924 DSCF3493 (2).JPG — ***Undiscovered Arran***

The usual big climbing venues - Glen Coe, Ben Nevis, Skye - all feature heavily in the documented exploits of W.H. Murray either side of the war. But his books also promote other prized areas of the Highlands, such as the Cairngorms, Torridon, Glen Affric, Ardgour, Rum and Arran. Of the latter, two chapters on Cir Mhor would foreshadow my own love of Arran’s wee hills many years later. In ***‘Undiscovered Scotland’*** *(1951), Murray wrote of scaling Cir Mhor’s southern precipice via the stunning Rosa Pinnacle (with or without Rosa-tinted spectacles!):*
*“… Cir Mhor by the Rosa Pinnacle grew ever more desirable in my eyes, until it quite ousted every other mountain route in Scotland.”*
*On Murray’s actual day of ascent (June 1949), accompanied by Norman and Mona Tennent:*
“… the sunshine crept down the Rosa Pinnacle until its whole eight hundred feet had been won from shadow… The rock scene at the pinnacle-shelf is as bold as any I know in Scotland. On this granite there is no blemish of vegetation. To each side, walls, corners, edges, thrust up cleanly… The sweep and lift of the crags give to the very air an added airiness…”
*(Digital image, September 2018)*

With this kind of armchair apprenticeship, I found the act of finally exploring the Highlands to be an almost mystical experience. It’s how I imagine a Tolkien addict might feel if they could actually inhabit Middle-earth, treading a land of myth and magic. Or a Harry Potter aficionado walking the hallowed halls of Hogwarts (which is perhaps more apt, given West Highland filming affiliations). The approach to Glen Coe still gets me every time… the A82 ribbon-like as it passes Loch Tulla and rises to the watery sweep of Rannoch Moor, before rounding a spur of the Black Mount to reveal the huge stark arrowhead of Buachaille Etive Mor. Then inching ever closer, dwarfed by the Buachaille’s gothic armour - vertical playground to the Abraham Brothers, W.H. Murray, MacInnes and Bonington and Haston and countless others - before skirting a smaller craggy cousin nicknamed the “Wee Buachaille” and descending into the sacred portal of Glen Coe itself. To the left loom the “Three Sisters”, hewn from Bidean’s bedrock like a seismic sculpture, while the crenellated ramparts of the Aonach Eagach crowd out the right. If you’re lucky, the sun will be shining… if you’re really lucky, it will be blowing a hoolie, waterfalls will be whipped inside out, and the glen’s uniquely desolate atmosphere will be complete.

Over the years an onward progression would then unfold, both literally and figuratively, through Glen Coe to the hinterland beyond… via the curving ridgelines of the Mamores and Glen Shiel, to the unearthly Skye-scapes of the Cuillin and the quartz-capped monsters of Torridon. And finally the far north, not so much mountain terrain spattered with lochs and glens, as loch-spattered terrain punctuated by isolated sentinels… an alien expanse, primeval in feel.

And so the odyssey continued, sometimes solo or with friends, usually with my Dad. But our burgeoning experience of wilderness wasn’t purely a migration upward or northward. It was about exploring hidden corners and secluded viewpoints, teasing out challenging lines of ascent. Fresh perspectives on old favourites, alongside discovery of the new. We re-acquainted ourselves with the Lakes, absorbing Wainwright’s devotional guides as we wandered the lonely (and not so lonely) fells, from High Street to Helm Crag to Helvellyn. Snowdonia too became a firm favourite, despite an inauspicious start… a wild and wintry Easter weekend, which saw abandonment of our Nant Peris campsite (tent in icy puddle!) plus abortive attempts on Snowdon and Tryfan. Yet a further last-ditch crack at Tryfan succeeded, so I ambitiously called it a draw… and more significantly, we would tread the region’s spiky skylines many more times, drawn to its wealth of fine scrambles from Crib Goch to Bristly Ridge to the Llech Ddu Spur. All amid serious and spectacular scenery, befitting an area rich in both climbing lore and Celtic legend.

South Wales would soon be re-visited as well, excursions to the Brecon Beacons bringing to mind that blistering hot trek up Corn Du as a small (tottering) tot. I would now progress beyond Corn Du to Pen y Fan itself, gazing over its far precipice and vowing to return for Cribyn (for one climb always leads to another!). Dartmoor came to dominate closer to home, becoming a local stomping ground after moving to Devon in 2003. I loved the charm and texture of its granite tors, along with the prehistoric and industrial imprints which had somehow woven themselves into the fabric of the moor. And of course there were inevitable pilgrimages to Scotland, pilgrim’s staff exchanged for ice axe as we sought the transformative properties of Southern Highland snow. For it may sound obvious, but snow really does transform the landscape… a literal blank canvas, beckoning - siren-like - toward those twin arts of mountaineering and photography.

It is often claimed that mountains are unchanging, yet each new dawn brings a different perspective for those who observe or venture out. A particular ascent route can in turn be joyous and uplifting, or outlandishly daring, or downright impossible. Vagaries of weather and light… seasonal shifts or surface conditions… local flora and fauna… these all combine with the character of the mountain, and that of its human aspirants, to conjure something truly unique. And this, I think, is a large part of the appeal. The resulting memories are always fresh, whether you’re there as wanderer, mountaineer or photographer. Or even, to paraphrase Mallory, if you’re just there.

My own mountain memories now form an inevitable blur, although with flashes of detail where my mind chooses to hover and reflect. And the colour which emerges is not just a succession of bouldery routes… the real value can be found in the human elements along the way, measured by camaraderie rather than captured on camera. Those fleeting encounters with strangers, the shared bonds of adventure or wry exchanges in the rain. Such as the hiker we met half-way up Scafell Pike who swore blind that he was on Great Gable (the iconic view of which was just over his shoulder). Or the veteran climber on Blaven who’d been lowered into a river when his walking poles retracted. Later that same day, returning to the car triumphant at surviving a Cuillin classic, my Dad was bitten by a wild pig (and eventually saw the funny side). My own Skye mishap involved being washed down a waterslide in Coir’ a’ Ghrunnda, my backpack a giant bar of soap as it whooshed over polished slabs and left me spread-eagled, cartoon-like, in an ice-cold plunge pool. I could go on with these tales of humourous hardship, but I should probably call a halt before descending into caricature. Suffice to say that memories are there to be made!

So there you have it; I’ve presented my case that I’m a mountain geek and not a photography geek. Mountains have led me to photography, rather than the other way around. But now that I’m here, I’ve found the world of photography has opened up an immersive quality to the outdoor experience, which at its best can feel meditative or serene. And this act of contemplation in turn brings a greater appreciation of those other subjects - the cosmos, coast and creatures - which so often serve as the photographer’s muse.

But what of those early photographs, our dusty “golden age” shots which pre-date the digital revolution? Well, looking back now, our methods seem decidedly quaint. On a decent-sized walk we would generally carry one roll of film containing 24 exposures, or 36 if we’d really splashed out. We might have a spare roll if the first was already in-camera and part-used, but no more than that. I certainly remember plenty of mountain walks in which we’d run out of film on the high summits, inevitably prompting a spectacular sunset or tap-dancing golden eagle (so it seemed!) during our unrecorded descent. So we had to be frugal with our frames, which meant dispensing with the luxury of repeating shots to secure backups or capture subtly-shifting moods. We also had no way of reviewing our images on the fly, which meant no means of deleting and re-taking a favoured composition. It was a case of point-and-shoot, job done, move on (which is actually quite liberating). Then we’d wait a couple of weeks to get the pictures back from the chemist, excitedly opening the envelope and viewing prints of our fading holiday high-jinks for the first time.

Take An Teallach, for instance. One of the most stunning mountains in Britain, in turn jaw-dropping and stomach-churning. It had been a dream aspiration of mine since childhood, when the snow-draped Corrag Bhuidhe Pinnacles had floored me from the pages of “The High Mountains…”. Even in summer this was a serious proposition, its size and severity prompting me to pound the streets, Rocky-style, some months in advance. When the chosen day arrived, my Dad and I prevaricated, wary of poor weather and battle-weary from our previous two days on Beinn Eighe and Beinn Alligin. We took our time driving round from Kinlochewe, stopping to view Slioch and persuading ourselves that the gently wavering cloud-base demanded immediate inaction. In truth, nervous apprehension was getting the better of us. It took blue skies in Dundonnell to prise on our boots, then thankfully adrenaline kicked in and we were away (up, up and away). Some hours later, newly-energised by a dizzying traverse of Corrag Bhuidhe, I clambered onto the leaning spire of Lord Berkeley’s Seat and tried not to wobble as my Dad teed up his shot from the ridgeline below. One quick snap, and there it was… a moment years in the making, almost written off that very morning, entrusted to a single click and then consigned to an anonymous darkroom. But my Dad had nailed it, the darkroom pulled through, and our memory of the day gained a tangible memento.

As an aside, our day’s adventures didn’t quite end there. We crossed An Teallach’s dual Munros, jaded yet jubilant, before joining a gaggle of fellow walkers on a breathless descent of Coire a Ghlas Thuill. Down and down we stumbled, racing deepening shadows, by now out of film and out of steam. Finally, just a stone’s throw from safety, we found ourselves hopelessly entangled in a thicket of rhododendrons. Realising that our sole means of escape was to wade the adjacent river, my Dad removed his boots and flung them across, one-by-one… only for each to curiously disappear on the far bank. Their hiding place was unwittingly unearthed when a hapless stranger - a Good Samaritan assisting our search - unleashed a scream as his leg lurched into a narrow but improbably deep hole concealed by the heather. Upon gingerly extracting his leg - which we genuinely feared might be broken - this poor man reached back in, like an anguished magician, and doggedly retrieved both of my Dad’s boots. By the time we staggered into Dundonnell Hotel, bushed and bedraggled, we’d missed last orders for food… but the kindly bar staff took one look at us and rustled up a large plate of sandwiches. All’s well that ends well (though I do still wonder about the fate of our mystery helper’s leg…)!

Reflecting on our pictures now, I view that image of Lord Berkeley’s Seat as a companion piece to the Eag Dhubh shot which my Dad had taken the previous day near the summit of Beinn Alligin. The slight twist being that the themes and moods are reversed, as though negatives of one another… swapping out a pinnacle for a gully, and blue skies for grey mist. Whilst these were certainly successes (for which I claim no credit!), there’s no denying that our photographic ethos from this pre-digital age had its limitations. We did take some account of composition, but no allowance for changing levels of brightness or poor dynamic range. We couldn’t adjust our camera’s aperture or exposure time, for example. ISO settings were a dark art, sensitivity to light being a pre-defined property of the film. Our only concession to controlling focus meant toggling to an automated mountain vista mode for anything which wasn’t a close-up (and exactly how close was a close-up anyway?). On early camera models, we couldn’t even zoom. There was certainly no switching of lenses, nor use of tripods… no burst photography, filtering, bracketing or stacking. Shooting in RAW format was an alien concept. Attempted panoramas - those grand 360-degree sweeps from on-high - were printed off all higgledy-piggledy, tones and textures clashing as they were lashed together, Blue Peter-style, using sellotape and scissors.

20200910 DSCF1674-1701_Caisteal_Abhail_Pano_01 (LR_10000).jpg — ***Arran Panorama #1 - South from Caisteal Abhail***

A 10-shot digital panorama of Arran’s wee hills (perhaps a “Pan-Arran-amic”), having descended beneath the cloud-line on Caisteal Abhail. A little murky, but illustrative of an outcome which I couldn’t have achieved using the traditional sellotape-and-scissors technique!
*(Digital panorama, September 2020; taken by hand, stitched using Lightroom)*

20200918 DSCF1827-1834_Mountain_Pano (2) (LR_10000).jpg — ***Arran Panorama #2 - North from Cnoc Dubh***

“Top View from Cnoc Dubh”… a reverse aspect of the first panorama, this time an 8-pic pano looking north from the moorland above Arran’s String Road. The sharp granite peak of Cir Mhor is central to both views; few British mountains (if any) can claim such a striking facade from both north and south.
*(Digital panorama, September 2020; tripod-assisted, stitched using Lightroom)*

So, the upshot of this dubious quality is that I’d decided not to include any crusty old film images on my website. I wanted to at least pretend that I was vaguely professional, that I’d learnt and applied some photographic techniques. These early efforts were poorly scanned (where scanned at all), and had never comprised enough resolution or dynamic range in the first place. Their digitised versions were noisy, with a pitiful number of megapixels. I simply wasn’t a photographer back then, and in any case my succession of basic cameras couldn’t cut the mustard. But actually, I came to realise that an age-old maxim rings true, from the time of the Abraham Brothers right through to the present day… that the best camera for the job is the one you have with you. And looking again at our mini-collection of mountain shots, they had heart. Maybe just to me, with my nostalgic bias, yet surely that still counts for something? Because photography is not purely about art… it’s about memories, about dreams fulfilled and good times shared. The joy of spontaneity, captured for posterity. Slightly cheesy, I know, and I could easily trot out some well-worn cliches - heart as well as art, or depth of feeling, not depth of field - but the point is, if you set out to photograph something (or someone) special to you, the rest will take care of itself. So I’ve presented a few pictures here not because they are technically great - they certainly won’t win any awards - but as a reminder that I should always strive to incorporate the same level of enthusiasm and love into my future work, whatever the subject. With or without the megapixels.

20200918 DSCF1845 (3) (LR_3120).jpg — ***Freedom of the Hills (Dreaming of Escape)***

*Relaxing on Arran during a brief respite from lockdown. Inwardly reminiscing, yet with an eye to the future… a literal and metaphorical golden dawn?*
*(Digital image, September 2020)*

In truth, I suspect that everybody of a certain vintage has a “golden age” in their lives. But let’s not mourn its passing, or hide it away… we should all learn to embrace our personal golden age, to apply its spirit to the here and now. For our current and pending ventures - whatever they may be - inevitably build on what has gone before. And most of all, while we look to the future, remember to savour every moment… for the present is tomorrow’s golden age!