​Mindfulness, that gentle art of anchoring ourselves in the present, has never felt more essential. Through photography, it offers a quiet stillness amid the relentless tasks and stresses of preparing for the house move. When out with my camera, I’m reminded to slow down, to notice, and to reconnect with what is here and now. Photographing the oakwoods that surround my current home calls for full attention to the moment. In the act of seeing, framing, and simplifying compositions within the woodland’s chaos – just as with this month’s image of a twisted oak, aglow in its gloriously golden autumn foliage – I find a much-cherished sense of calm.
 
Perhaps this is why photography has become more than a hobby for me. It is a way of caring for my own mind. Human emotions are complicated, but at heart, we all want the same thing: fewer negative feelings and more positive ones. The challenge is that, while emotions are experienced in the present, their triggers often come from elsewhere. Regret and guilt drag us into the past, while anxiety and fear rush us forward into imagined futures. By contrast, the moments when we feel most alive – curiosity, contentment, excitement – arrive when we are wholly engaged with the present. Photography draws me back to this place, time and again.
 
There is something profoundly soothing about the act of framing a picture. Scenes often feel chaotic at first – too much clutter, too many distractions. But as I shift position or refine the composition, the confusion resolves into balance. With my mind focussed on this, stresses disappear and anxiety unravels. Composing an image becomes a quiet form of self-alignment, a way of finding order both outside and within.
 
Photography has also taught me to accept impermanence. Light changes, clouds drift, people move. No moment lasts long. Sometimes I miss the shot, and that is fine – the act of noticing was enough. Other times I catch it, and the photograph becomes a reminder of what it felt like to be fully present. A reminder that calm can be found simply by being in the moment.
 
I find myself slowing down when I photograph. In an age that urges speed and encourages short attention spans, this feels almost rebellious. I might wait for the light to shift, wander quietly through a woodland, or stand still until a scene reveals itself. These pauses give space for the mind to rest, for breath to deepen, for time to lose its urgency. In these moments, only seeing remains. It is mindfulness by another name.
 
Time and time again, I find that my photography is less about the images I make and more about the way it teaches me to see. Each picture records not just the world, but also my state of mind when I took it. It is a practice of presence, a quiet conversation between eye, mind, and moment. Through it, I am reminded time and time again to be in the present and to let the stresses and worries of what might be disappear. Well, at least for a while.

Scenes like this make me eagerly anticipate the arrival of autumn, my own and many other landscape photographers’ favourite season. It arrives gently here on the Peninsula, never abrupt, never clamouring for attention. It slips in almost unnoticed at first, with cooler nights and mornings that carry a sharper edge. 

​It is the light itself that defines autumn here. The harsh glare of summer is gone, replaced by something softer and more searching. Morning mist drifts across the loch, clinging to the hills and hollows. When the sun breaks through, its beams pierce the thinning canopy, falling in golden shafts upon the woodland floor. By evening, skies blush with rose and amber, their richness heightened by their brevity before darkness settles swiftly in. These shortened days lend the season its mood: reflective, quiet, a time to turn inward as the earth itself eases into slower rhythms.

​A walk through these woodlands in October is to witness constant change. Leaves loosen and fall, carpeting the ground in shades of ochre and crimson. Footsteps stir their crisp rustling, a sound that belongs only to this season. Streams run briskly after autumn rains, their chatter carrying through the stillness. Birdsong grows faint, giving way to the echoing roar of stags as the rut begins, their voices carrying hauntingly through dawn and dusk.
 
By late October, the landscape is at its richest. The woodlands flare in crimson and gold, the hillsides glow with warm amber light, and the lochs reflect skies that change quickly between calm and storm. To photograph the Peninsula at such a time is an absolute joy. It’s as if nature has unveiled a vast, fleeting painting, a painting whose colours are sharpened by their brevity. 

​Soon enough, leaves will fall, branches will stand bare, and autumn will surrender to winter. Yet for a brief time, autumn holds the Peninsula in its gentle embrace, and it is this fleeting nature that makes the season so special. It reminds me that beauty often lies in transition, in the moment between fullness and decline. In the woodlands, with their play of light and colour, the lesson is clear: pause, breathe, and cherish the fleeting splendour of change. In its stillness, we find peace, “An Autumn Peace.”

​To the naked eye, the Milky Way appears as a soft, silvery band stretched across the night sky. Yet that glow is not mist but the combined light of hundreds of billions of stars, packed so closely together that their light merges into a pale shimmer. From Earth, we are looking edge-on through the spiral arms of our galaxy, peering into a luminous river of suns. Each point is a star, many with worlds of their own, all bound together in a cosmic dance that has endured for more than 13 billion years.
 
At this time of year, on clear, moonless nights, the galaxy’s bright core hovers near Sagittarius, low in the south. As the night stretches deeper, the galaxy sweeps overhead, with its glowing arms threading through Cygnus, Cassiopeia, and Perseus like a vast river of light. By winter, the core slips below the horizon, but the Milky Way’s paler stretches remain visible, arching directly overhead from horizon to horizon.
 
For millennia, people have looked up and found meaning in its glow. Ancient Greeks believed it to be milk spilt from the breast of the goddess Hera—hence the name “Milky Way.” Norse mythology imagined it as the path to Valhalla. Across the world, cultures have looked up at the same misty arc and woven it into their stories: a celestial river, a road for souls, or a trail of fire. Even today, standing beneath it can stir the same sense of awe our ancestors felt.
 
Science, of course, offers us another kind of wonder. The Milky Way is a barred spiral galaxy, over 100,000 light years across, containing perhaps 400 billion stars. Our Sun lies about halfway from the centre to the outer edge, orbiting once every 225 million years. Nestled in one of its quieter spiral arms, we are part of an unimaginably vast structure of gas, dust, stars, and dark matter. When we look up at its shining arc, we are seeing the very framework of our galactic home.

​Part of its magic lies in its rhythm. Through midsummer, Scotland’s lingering twilight hides the galaxy from view. But as true darkness returns, so does the Milky Way, like an old friend stepping out of memory. That first glimpse each year feels like a gift, a reminder that the sky renews itself just as the seasons do.
 
As a photographer, I eagerly await its return. Thanks to modern cameras, long exposures can reveal intricate details: star clouds glowing in shades of pink and blue, dark dust lanes weaving through the light, and clusters sparkling like jewels. Yet even without a lens, the view is breathtaking. To lie back on a clear night, far from the glare of towns, let your eyes slowly adjust, and lose yourself in the vastness above, is unforgettable.
 
Along its span lie further treasures – the Pleiades, the Double Cluster, the glowing nebulae of Cygnus. With binoculars, the Milky Way’s mist resolves into countless individual stars, revealing the immensity hidden in that pale band.
 
Ultimately, its return is more than an astronomical event – it is an invitation. To step outside, to slow down, to let the stars remind us of our place in the universe. Beneath its shimmering arc, everyday worries dissolve, replaced by timeless questions: How many stars? How many worlds? What else lies hidden in that flowing band of light? So, if you do one thing this autumn, step outside on a clear, moonless night and lose yourself in the stars.

​Intrigued by the vivid bursts of colour clinging to the rock, I was curious to know more. So, with a little research, I discovered the lichen is called maritime sunburst – a name so perfect it felt as if the lichen itself had chosen it. Even beneath the deepening grey of the sky, it seemed to shout, bold and defiant, “IT’S STILL SUMMER”.
 
I learnt that this lichen, like all lichens, is a remarkable partnership between two very different organisms: fungi and algae. They live together in close cooperation. The fungi provide the algae with protection, moisture, and, in the case of maritime sunburst lichen, even a kind of sunscreen. This sunscreen is what gives the lichen its bright golden colour. Tucked safely within the fungi, the algae use sunlight to make sugars through photosynthesis. These sugars then feed the fungi in return.
 
This partnership is incredibly ancient, with the oldest known lichen dating back around four hundred million years. Even more remarkably, it hasn’t happened just once. It has evolved independently at least three different times in the history of life on Earth – an extraordinary example of what is known as convergent evolution. The reason? Well, this alliance is perfectly suited to tough environments. Together, the fungi and the algae are more resilient than either could be alone. The fungi absorb water and nutrients; the algae guard against drying out and shield them from the sun. Time and again, through different evolutionary paths, these two have found each other, forging one of nature’s most successful relationships.
 
How lichen reproduce is equally fascinating, if not a little bit unusual. Because lichen isn’t a single organism but a partnership, it does not usually reproduce as one. Instead, the fungus part of the lichen releases spores, which can only grow if they land near the species of algae that they can bond with. When they do, the fungal spores send out tiny filaments, like arms, that reach out and grab the algae. And from that moment, a new lichen begins.
 
Lichens are also among the first living things to appear in places where life seems impossible. Their secret lies in the powerful teamwork between fungi and algae that allows them to draw energy from sunlight and extract nutrients from nothing more than air, rain, and stone. After a wildfire, when the ground is still blackened and lifeless, lichens are often the first to return. When glaciers melt and expose raw rock, lichens quietly begin to grow. Even on the barren flanks of a newborn volcanic island, they are among the earliest signs of life. And as they spread, they help create the conditions needed for others to follow – mosses, grasses, trees, insects, birds, mammals. Whole ecosystems begin with this humble alliance.
 
This was an astounding discovery. A discovery that reminded me of the wonders of the workings of the natural world. A discovery of a flash of gold on the shore of Loch Sunart that was not treasure, but instead an ancient partnership that can prepare the earth for life itself.

​However, in today’s increasingly urbanised and busy world, it’s easy to feel disconnected from nature. Most of us spend our days surrounded by concrete, screens, and routines that keep us indoors. But when we take even a few moments to step outside and really notice the natural world, something shifts. We feel a little calmer, a little lighter, and often, a bit more like ourselves. That’s the power of nature connectedness – the feeling that we’re part of something bigger than just our day-to-day to-do lists.
 
Helpfully, researchers from the University of Derby have come up with a way to think about how we can reconnect with nature in everyday life. It’s the Five Pathways to Nature Connectedness, and it’s not about hiking remote trails or becoming a wilderness expert. Instead, it’s about changing the way we relate to nature in our everyday lives through Contact, Beauty, Emotion, Meaning, and Compassion.
 
They say that the most straightforward way to connect with nature is through direct sensory contact. Whether it’s the smell of rain, the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze, or the feel of cool grass under your feet, tuning into those details helps us feel more present and grounded. These moments are small, but they can be powerful reminders that we’re part of a living, breathing world.
 
From there, it’s only natural to begin noticing beauty. Nature is full of it, once we start paying attention – the soft glow of the sun through the trees, the intricate patterns on a leaf, the surprising colour of a shell on the beach. When we take time to appreciate these things, we start to develop a sense of wonder. It’s a kind of quiet joy that doesn’t need words or explanation. And the more we notice, the more we realise how much beauty is all around us, even in places we might not expect.
 
As we spend more time noticing and appreciating nature, it often stirs up emotion. Maybe we feel peace watching birds fly overhead, or sadness seeing a tree that’s been cut down. Maybe we feel a deep sense of joy when we see something in bloom or a feeling of awe at a star-filled sky. These emotional responses matter. They help us form a deeper connection to the natural world, turning it from just a background to something we truly care about.
 
This care then creates space for reflection and meaning. Many people find that nature offers symbols or metaphors for their own lives – a river that reminds them to keep moving forward, a flower that shows resilience, a sunset that helps them let go of the day. Nature has always been woven into our stories, beliefs, and personal moments of clarity. It helps us make sense of things in quiet, powerful ways.
 
Finally, when we begin to feel connected emotionally and find personal meaning in the natural world, compassion follows. We start to care not just about how nature makes us feel, but about how our actions affect it. We want to protect it, nurture it, and help it thrive – whether that means picking up litter, planting wildflowers, supporting conservation efforts, or simply being more mindful about what we consume and throw away. These small choices reflect a deeper relationship. We’re no longer separate from nature; we’re part of it.
 
Reconnecting with nature doesn’t have to be complicated. It can start with stepping outside, slowing down, and paying attention. From there, it grows – through the senses, through beauty, through feeling, through meaning, and through care. These five pathways are more than just steps; they’re reminders of how much nature has to offer us, and how much we, in return, can offer back.

​Although often referred to as the “Longest Day,” the summer solstice is actually the precise moment in time when the North Pole reaches its maximum tilt toward the Sun. This year, it occurs at 3:41 am on Saturday, June 21st. For those of us on the Peninsula, the Sun will rise at 4:27:39 am at its north-easternmost point of the year and won’t set until 10:22:32 pm, when it dips below the horizon at its north-westernmost point of the year. That will give us a remarkable 17 hours, 54 minutes, and 53 seconds of daylight. It’s little wonder that, after enduring the long, dark days of winter, these long summer days have such an uplifting effect on our mood and overall well-being.
 
A major reason for this seasonal boost is increased exposure to sunlight. Sunlight stimulates the brain to produce more serotonin—the “feel-good” chemical responsible for enhancing mood, calming the mind, and sharpening focus. With higher levels of serotonin, people often feel lighter, brighter, and more resilient. This is especially beneficial for those affected by seasonal affective disorder (SAD), a type of depression that often emerges with the darkness and cold of winter.
 
Sunlight also plays a crucial role in regulating our circadian rhythm, the body’s internal clock that governs when we feel awake or sleepy. As we stir in the morning, specialised cells in our eyes pick up on natural light, especially the blue in it, and send signals to the brain’s master clock. Our brain realises that it’s daytime and starts waking us up by adjusting things like hormones and body temperature. This daily reset helps our body stay in sync with the 24-hour day, helping us feel more alert, sleep more soundly, and function at our best.
 
Beyond its biological benefits, the abundance of daylight in summer invites us to spend more time outdoors, encouraging physical activity and fostering a deeper connection with nature. This combination of movement and mindful presence supports not only physical health but also mental well-being. While I certainly appreciate the physical perks, such as improved cardiovascular fitness, it’s the mental and emotional restoration that I appreciate most.
 
There is something hugely restorative and healing about spending time outside in the warm glow of summer, whether it’s a long walk in the hills, taking in the beautiful scenery, or sitting quietly by the shore, listening to the soothing rhythm of waves lapping on the shore.
 
When I spend time like this in nature, I notice that my attention is gently drawn rather than forcibly grabbed. This experience, known as “soft fascination”, describes the calming engagement we feel in natural environments. Instead of the noise and distractions of modern life, nature offers subtler, soothing stimuli – the rustle of leaves, the gentle babble of a stream, or clouds slowly shifting overhead. These quiet elements hold our attention just enough to keep us present without overwhelming the senses, allowing the mind to rest and recover. This in turn helps reduce mental fatigue and lower stress levels.
 
So ultimately, the long summer days help me sleep more soundly, feel more grounded, and experience the world with a calm sense of mindfulness. They remind me to slow down, be present, and let nature quietly work its magic. Here’s to those long and glorious days of summer – may they arrive quickly and linger long.

​To understand why our eyes are so adept at detecting and differentiating so many shades of green, it’s important to examine the underlying biology of our visual system.
 
The human retina contains three types of cone cells, each designed to detect specific light wavelengths. These cones are known as short (S), medium (M), and long (L) wavelength cones, which are most sensitive to blue, green, and red light, respectively.
 
All three types of cones work together to help us see a wide spectrum of millions of colours. However, the medium-wavelength cones, which are sensitive to green, are the most abundant and the most responsive. This increased sensitivity lets us distinguish a broad range of green shades with remarkable precision.
 
The biological emphasis on green detection is not coincidental. It’s an evolutionary trait. Our primate ancestors depended on their vision for survival in dense, green environments. Being able to detect the subtle differences between green hues helped them find edible plants, spot hidden predators, move through tricky terrain, and locate water. Those who were better at it had a higher chance of survival and passed this skill on to future generations.
 
As a result, our eyes can detect even the slightest variations in green hues, allowing us to recognise a wider range of green shades more easily and accurately than any other colour in the visible spectrum. This is also why the greens of spring appear so vibrant and diverse to us.
 
Our ability to detect so many shades of green not only affects how we see the natural world but also plays a key role in our psychological and emotional well-being. Since green is the colour most frequently processed by our eyes, it often feels calming and relaxing. Our brains can interpret green with little effort, making it one of the most soothing colours for the human eye.
 
Psychologically, green is often associated with balance, harmony, and renewal. These associations are deeply rooted in our evolutionary past, when seeing green likely signalled safety, abundance, and the presence of life-sustaining resources like water and vegetation. Today, green still brings a sense of calm and comfort and this is why it’s commonly used in certain environments to reduce stress, such as hospitals, schools, and workspaces.
 
Furthermore, spending time around green spaces – especially natural greens found in plants and outdoor areas – can help reduce anxiety, lower blood pressure, and improve concentration. This effect, known as “biophilia”, reflects our natural bond with nature and the calming power of green environments. Even artificial exposure, like viewing forest images or using green in interior design, can create a sense of calm and support mental recovery.
 
In summary, our natural sensitivity to green doesn’t just help us see the world more clearly – it helps us feel better while doing so. Green gives us both visual comfort and emotional calm, helping us feel more at peace and more connected to nature.

​Well, this canopy of distinct trees, which looks like clusters of broccoli florets, is because of a phenomenon called ‘crown shyness’ where the trees are not so much talking to each other, but more sensing each other’s presence.
 
Scientists think this happens because the trees can detect a specific type of light called far-red light. This light tells them when they are getting too close to their neighbours. When they sense this, they stop growing in that direction, which helps them make the best use of sunlight and ensures they don't compete for light.
 
Another possible reason for crown shyness is physical contact between branches during windy conditions. As the wind moves the branches, they rub against each other, causing small injuries or broken tips. Over time, this repeated friction may prevent further growth in those areas, creating the distinctive gaps between tree crowns.
 
Either way, this intriguing phenomenon underscores how trees, despite their stationary nature, exhibit remarkable sensitivity to themselves and their environment. However, it is thought that trees go beyond this and do in fact communicate with each other in a number of ways.
 
In his bestseller, The Secret Life of Trees, German forester Peter Wohlleben reveals how a gigantic underground fungal network, that he calls the “Internet of the Forest”, enables trees to exchange information. Known scientifically as the mycorrhizal network, it allows trees to exchange nutrients, water, and even chemical signals.
 
At its core are mycorrhizal fungi, which form symbiotic relationships with tree roots. The fungi provide trees with essential nutrients like phosphorus and nitrogen, while trees give the fungi sugars produced through photosynthesis. These fungal threads, called hyphae, spread through the soil, linking different plants and creating a vast, interconnected web.
 
He explains how trees use this network to communicate and support each other. For example, large, older trees, called "Mother Trees," send nutrients to younger or weaker trees. They also use it to release warning signals when under attack by pests or diseases, alerting their neighbours to activate their defences with the result that the health of the forest as a whole is maintained.
 
Another form of communication he describes is the mutual assistance they give each other through their root systems. A tree on the brink of death can be kept alive by a healthy neighbour. The latter shares the nutrients it has transformed through photosynthesis with the ailing tree until it is strong enough to feed itself. Similarly, young trees growing in the shade of larger ones often do not get enough light to photosynthesise their nutrients. So, in these cases, the larger, more established trees feed them via the vast, branching fungal network beneath the ground on which they sit.
 
Trees also communicate through the air using something called phytoncides. They are natural chemicals produced by plants, especially trees, to defend against harmful microorganisms and are released into the air around the trees. They are also beneficial to us and when we walk through the woodland, we unknowingly breathe them in, boosting our immune system and overall health. So, the next time you are wandering through trees, remember – they’re constantly talking to each other, supporting one another, and even benefiting us in the process.

The Belt of Venus is what is known as the anti-twilight arch, a phenomenon that appears as a distinct pinkish or rosy band of light just above the horizon opposite the setting or rising sun. It is visible during both dawn and dusk, adding a sense of wonder and beauty to the transitions between night and day. So much so that it is named after the magical girdle of Aphrodite, a legendary artifact imbued with extraordinary powers.
 
This girdle, also known as the Cestus, was said to have been woven from the finest threads of gold and adorned with intricate patterns that shimmered like the dawn. Its enchantment was unparalleled because it held the divine ability to inspire love and desire in anyone who beheld its beauty and Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love and beauty, wielded it to captivate gods and mortals alike, bending their wills to her favour.
 
Its power was not merely physical; it is said to have emanated an aura of irresistible charm that could soothe the fiercest hearts and ignite the deepest passions. It symbolised the quintessence of feminine allure and the profound impact of love, and it gave Aphrodite dominion over the most potent of human emotions, rendering her the ultimate arbiter of harmony and discord in relationships. Therefore, it is little wonder that the captivating band of pink and rose hues that emerges out of the darkness during twilight, instilling a sense of timeless beauty, has been associated with the Cestus and named the Belt of Venus.
 
The Belt’s colours are formed by the scattering of sunlight through the Earth's atmosphere during twilight, when the sun is just below the horizon. It is then that the sun’s rays must travel through a greater thickness of the Earth's atmosphere compared to when it is higher in the sky. This increased path length causes shorter wavelengths of light, such as blue and violet, to scatter more than the longer wavelengths of red and pink. The result is that the remaining light which reaches our eyes is predominantly composed of the pinkish hues that we see just above the horizon.
 
The Earth's shadow can play a significant role in enhancing this phenomenon. The shadow is caused by the Earth obstructing the direct path of sunlight, to create a dark blue band low down on the horizon and opposite the sun. This dark blue shadow contrasts sharply with the pinkish and rose colours of the Belt of Venus above it, thus making the phenomenon even more striking. This is particularly so when it is observed over clear horizons, such as the ocean or open landscapes, where the full expanse of the sky is unobstructed.
 
So, if you find yourself at the coast during sunrise or sunset, and you have a clear view of the horizon, take a moment to marvel at the Belt of Venus as it emerges above the Earth’s shadow to paint the sky with a band of breathtaking pinks and blues. Take a moment to reflect on how ancient myths connect us to the celestial rhythms that govern our world. And take a moment to pause and appreciate the fleeting moments of beauty that nature offers.

​Well, the silence is indeed real, and it’s all down to snow’s remarkable ability to absorb sound, an ability that can be explained by its unique structure.
 
Freshly fallen snow consists of a delicate network of ice crystals interspersed with countless tiny air pockets that play a crucial role in scattering and absorbing sound waves. When sound waves travel across a snowy landscape, they are diffused and dampened by these air pockets, reducing the level of ambient noise and this is why a fresh blanket of snow often creates a sense of tranquillity that feels almost magical.
 
The effect is most pronounced when the snow is fresh and fluffy, because this type of snow has the highest volume of air trapped within its crystalline structure. In contrast, as snow ages or undergoes compression — whether from melting, refreezing, or being trampled underfoot — the intricate network of air pockets diminishes. This compacted snow has much less sound-absorbing capability, allowing sound waves to travel more freely across the landscape and restore some of the usual ambient noise.
 
The large, sound dampening fluffy snowflakes are born of creative processes at play high up in our atmosphere where water vapour condenses around microscopic particles of dust and pollen. These specks serve as the nuclei for ice crystals and when the temperature is between about -3°C and -10°C, these ice crystals grow and branch out into six-sided structures, each one uniquely determined by the temperature and humidity of the atmosphere.
 
As these delicate structures descend through the atmosphere, they encounter varying temperatures and air currents and when the humidity is high, water vapour continues to deposit on them, causing them to grow larger and more elaborate as they fall. When it is calm and there is little or no wind, the resulting snowflakes remain intact during their descent, allowing them to maintain their large, delicate shapes and fall gently to the ground without much compression.
 
When the ground is cold, it prevents the snowflakes from melting or sticking together upon landing, preserving their structure, enhancing their light and fluffy nature to create a soft white blanket that is extremely effective at silencing the landscape.
 
Without the hum of occasional distant traffic, the chatter of birds, the rustling of leaves, or the rippling of water, it’s perhaps no surprise that a profound sense of peace often envelops me when I venture out after a fresh fall of snow, once this blanket of silence has formed.
 
The stillness feels tangible and otherworldly and one that is intensified by the simplicity of the scene before me. In the woodlands, the snow has smoothed out imperfections and softened harsh lines. The ancient oaks are draped in delicate white, with their branches outlined like intricate etchings against the hillsides, seemingly standing clear of the chaos that normally surrounds them.
 
As I wander through these familiar surroundings, ones that have been reshaped by the snow’s transformative power, with the crunch of snow under my feet being the only sound to break the stillness, the complexities of modern life seem to disappear and the only thing I hear is nature’s invitation to slow down, breathe in the crisp air and find peace in the change that winter brings.

Although many people refer to the Winter Solstice as the Shortest Day of the year, it is the exact moment when the northern hemisphere is furthest away from the Sun. This happened today, 21 December 2024, at precisely 9:21 am when the Sun was directly overhead at the Tropic of Capricorn, its southernmost point in the sky. From here on in, the hours of darkness will start to get shorter and daylight hours will start to get longer.

This change is caused by the Earth’s axial tilt, which is approximately 23.5 degrees to its orbital plane and it is this tilt that is the key factor in creating the seasons of the year. Just now, with the northern hemisphere being tilted farthest away from the Sun, the solar energy falling on us is at its weakest and with this comes the cold days of winter. However, the axial tilt will now gradually move towards the Sun, causing the Sun’s apparent position in the sky to climb higher each day. This results in longer days and an increase in the solar energy falling on us, bringing the gradual transition from winter to spring and then summer.
 
Therefore, the Winter Solstice is a pivotal moment in the Earth's journey around the Sun. One that shapes the rhythm of the seasons and the cyclical nature of the year and while the change in daylight length immediately after the solstice is subtle, it does become more pronounced as the weeks pass by and I find that this gradual progression reminds me that there are brighter days to come.
 
Reflecting on this, I think that it is no surprise that many cultures saw the Winter Solstice as symbolising the triumph of light over darkness. In fact, ancient Celtic solstice celebrations would involve the lighting of fires and candles to both honour the returning Sun and to banish the long, cold nights.
 
In ancient Scotland, the alignment of certain Neolithic sites with the Winter Solstice Sun demonstrates the deep connection the ancient Celts had with this astronomical event. For instance, the Callanish Stones on the Isle of Lewis and other standing stones are thought to have been used for rituals and ceremonies tied to the solstice.
 
However, Maeshowe, a Neolithic chambered cairn and passage grave on Orkney, holds a profound connection to Winter Solstice traditions, reflecting the ancient peoples' deep understanding of astronomy and their reverence for the cycles of nature.

Its most striking feature is its precise alignment with the Winter Solstice. The long, narrow passage leading into the central chamber is designed so that, at sunset on the Solstice, the fading sunlight streams through the passage and illuminates the interior of the cairn. This alignment underscores the significance of the Winter Solstice as a time of renewal and rebirth, when the Sun begins its gradual return after the year’s darkest day.
 
So, while the sight of later morning sunrises and mid-afternoon sunsets at this time of the year can leave you with a sense of wonder, it is the gradual realisation that the days are lengthening which impacts me most, because with this comes the promise of possibilities—a chance to spend more time outdoors, to reconnect with nature and to feel the Sun's presence for a little longer each day.

​Well, it seems that the perception that time speeds up as we age is a common experience, and it stems from a combination of psychological, biological, and cognitive factors. Put simply, while time itself remains constant, our interpretation of it changes over the course of our lives due to shifts in how our brains process and recall experiences.
 
One of the most widely accepted explanations for this is what’s called proportional theory. For example, to a 10-year-old, one year is 10% of their life, which feels substantial. To a 50-year-old, however, one year is only 2% of their life, making it feel much shorter in comparison. This proportional difference influences our perception of time, making it feel as though each successive year is progressively faster.
 
Another explanation involves how our brains perceive time based on the number of memorable or novel events we experience. In childhood and early adulthood, life is filled with “firsts” — first school, first job, first love, or first big trip. These novel experiences are more likely to be stored in our long-term memory, and because we recall more details from these periods, they feel longer in retrospect.
 
Daily routines and predictable patterns also play a significant role in the sensation of accelerated time because adults often settle into rhythms that involve work, family, and social obligations, which can become repetitive. This regularity contrasts with the dynamic and exploratory nature of youth, which feels slower due to constant change and learning. When days blur together due to monotony, months and years can seem to vanish quickly.
 
There are also neurological factors because, as we age, there are changes in brain activity related to time perception. Studies suggest that our internal clock, which is influenced by neural processing, may slow down as we grow older. This means that fewer mental markers are laid down over a given period, leading to the sensation that time is speeding up. Additionally, the production of dopamine, a neurotransmitter associated with time perception, decreases with age and so potentially alters how we experience the passage of time.
 
Also, as adults, we tend to focus more on future planning or present responsibilities, which leaves less room for moment-to-moment awareness. The more we operate on autopilot, the faster time seems to pass, a contrast to the detailed attention children pay to their surroundings.
 
Finally, as we grow older, the awareness of our mortality becomes more pronounced, often influenced by life experiences such as the loss of loved ones, health challenges, or reaching significant life milestones. This growing consciousness that the time ahead is finite may lead to a heightened focus on how quickly the years pass, amplifying the sensation of time’s acceleration. This awareness can also create a sense of urgency to accomplish goals or cherish meaningful moments, which paradoxically makes time feel even shorter because we are actively measuring its passage.
 
However, if you are feeling that time is passing far too quickly, you can slow it down by introducing more novelty and variety into your daily life. Engaging in new activities, traveling to unfamiliar places, or learning new skills creates vivid memories, making time feel richer and longer. Practicing mindfulness can also help by anchoring your attention to the present moment, reducing the tendency for days to blur together. Additionally, reflecting on your days through journaling or photography enhances memory recall, creating a more detailed sense of time and stretching its perceived passage. I wonder. Will time slow down if I get out with the camera more often?

​I first noticed the rowan trees being so heavily laden with berries on a walk down to Sàilean nan Cuileag when my eye was drawn to a swath of red berries and gold leaves that was standing out from a dark, almost grey backdrop of trees around the strandline on the western side of the bay. Intrigued, I took a closer look and saw that this splash of colour was hanging on the branches of a rowan tree anchored to the ground by an intricately twisted mass of roots.
 
Why so many berries I wondered? Are we in for a hard winter, or is there a more scientific explanation for the bountiful crop hanging above my head? Well, it seems that rowan trees are subject to a natural phenomenon known as “masting” where they produce heavy crops of berries in some years and far fewer in others. One major reason for this is predator satiation: in a “mast year”, rowans produce an overwhelming number of berries to ensure that not all can be consumed by birds and animals, allowing more seeds to survive and grow. It is triggered by environmental conditions, such as temperature and rainfall, meaning that all the trees in a specific region synchronise their masting cycles, thus explaining why most rowan trees on the Peninsula are heavily laden with berries this year.
 
One of the other reasons for masting is energy conservation. In a mast year, the trees expend a lot of energy in producing flowers and berries and they need time to recover from this. As a result, in the years following a mast year, they tend to conserve energy by producing fewer berries, giving them time to recover, replenish their resources and ultimately avoid exhausting themselves. So instead of a expecting harsh winter in the coming months, science tells us that we can expect fewer berries on the rowan trees here next summer. 

​Nevertheless, the rowan tree is surrounded by mystical beliefs. Often referred to as the "Witchwood" or the "Tree of Protection," it was believed to have protective powers that ward off evil spirits and prevent witches from causing harm. In a year such as this, when there has been a heavy crop of berries, these powers were seen as being especially potent and homes and farms were believed to be well protected from harm or witchcraft.
 
The rowan's vibrant red berries played a key role in its reputation for protection. Their red colour was considered powerful, often symbolising life, protection, and vitality. They have a small five-pointed star (a natural pentagram) on the bottom that was viewed as a symbol for warding off evil and protecting people from malevolent forces.

As a result, people would plant rowan trees near their homes, barns, and cattle pens to protect their property from witchcraft. In times when rowans were especially laden with fruit, their branches were often used to craft protective charms, crosses, and amulets. These items would be hung above doorways or worn to prevent harm, while in some places, rowan twigs were sewn into clothing to protect people from being bewitched.
 
So, although science may be telling us that the abundance of rowan berries we are seeing this year is not the portent of a harsh winter, we may want to take head of folklore and seek protection from malevolent forces during the dark winter months by crafting a protective charm from a branch heavily laden with berries. ​

​A photograph can be considered good for a multitude of reasons and understanding why it is perceived as good involves looking at several key aspects, some of which are technical and relatively easy to understand, and others are more complex because they relate to how the viewer responds to its content.
 
A technically proficient photograph is often seen as good because it demonstrates the photographer's ability to use their equipment to get that technically correct photograph. In doing so:
 

1. It is exposed correctly and captures details in both the shadows and highlights.
2. It is in focus, with the main subject being sharp and clear to the viewer's eye.
3. It has the correct depth of field, so that layers in the image add dimension to it.
4. Its colour balance and contrast contribute to its visual appeal and realism.

 
If a photographer gets these things right, then the photograph should be pleasing to the eye and technically sound, but will it be good? Not necessarily because, for this technically sound photograph to be good, it needs to create an emotional connection with the viewer.
 
On a general level, a beautifully composed photograph with striking visuals can evoke an emotional response simply through its aesthetic appeal. The use of light, colour, and composition can create a sense of peace, joy or awe and I guess this is why photographs of vivid sunrises and sunsets get many likes and comments on social media where the viewing time can be measured in seconds and any emotional response needs to be immediate as a result.
 
However, I find it far more rewarding when the emotional response runs a lot deeper than that and the viewer personally connects with the image because it resonates with them as a result of some kind of memory.
 
Such memories can be nostalgic in nature, reminding the viewer of past times, places they have been, or people they have known and I have had many people buy photographic prints from me because they portray places on the Peninsula that they have visited often or have once lived.
 
Alternatively, photographs of places where significant life events such as engagements, weddings or anniversaries have occurred tend to resonate more deeply because they bring back personal memories of the emotions felt during such moments. This in turn creates a strong sense of connection and this, to me, is what creates a truly ‘good photograph’.
 
Take this month’s image showing the old bridge over the River Shiel at Blain surrounded by trees in their full autumn splendour. It may be a technically sound image, and it may have aesthetic appeal because of its vivid colours, but neither of these things cause me to consider it to be a truly ‘good photograph’. What does, is that I have had several people personally connect with it because it shows a location where they have experienced a significant life event, such as getting engaged or being married.
 
The emotional resonance arising from the interplay between the viewer’s recollection of these personal experiences and this photograph’s visual and aesthetic elements makes it not just a simple photo, but a medium for evoking deep-seated emotions, making it both compelling and memorable. It is exactly this that can make it and other photographs ‘good’.

Regular readers of this blog might recall that I listed the names and timings of the full Moons for this year in my post for December 2023 and that September’s full Moon will be the Harvest Moon because it is the closest one to the autumnal equinox. 
​
All full moons rise around sunset and generally speaking, they rise about 50 minutes later each day. However, when the Moon rises close to the equinox, this reduces to about 20-25 minutes on the days before and after it is full. The resulting combination of twilight and moonlight means that there is more time when it is light enough to allow farmers to harvest their crops. Hence it being named the Harvest Moon.
 
In addition, September’s full Moon is the second of 2024’s four Supermoons with the others being the aforementioned Sturgeon Supermoon in August, then the Hunter’s Supermoon in October and finally November’s Beaver Supermoon.
 
For those who have an interest in the sea and tides, Supermoons are notable because they bring especially high spring tides that some people call king tides.
 
So, what is a supermoon and why does it create an extra-large spring tide, or king tide?
 
Well, the Moon doesn’t orbit around the Earth in a perfect circle. Instead, it has an elliptical orbit, where its distance from the Earth varies throughout the month, with the closest distance on this ellipse in any given month being called the perigee. When any full Moon comes within 90% of the perigee, or within 224,791 miles (or less) of our planet, it is called a supermoon. On these occasions it will look bigger and brighter than normal and will also exert a greater gravitational pull on the Earth than normal. This greater gravitational pull means that, just as a full moon gives us spring tides, a supermoon will give us extra-high spring tides, or king tides.
 
Given that September’s full Moon will pass by Earth at a distance of 222,131 miles, making it the second closest of the four supermoon’s, we can certainly expect these extra-high king tides. However, another thing to consider is that the full Moon is on 18 September, which is just four days before the Autumnal Equinox, so the tides will be higher than normal.
 
This is because the Sun is directly above the equator at the equinox, meaning that the Earth’s axis of rotation is not tilted towards or away from it and that it’s gravitational pull is evenly distributed across the planet. This enhances the Sun’s gravitational effect on Earth’s tides causing it to pull more directly on the Earth's equatorial regions, where the water bulges out more significantly and this gives us "equinoctial spring tides", where the tidal range—the difference between high and low tide—is at its greatest. For this reason, some people refer to these equinoctial spring tides as “great tides”.

​In Loch Sunart, the tidal range is typically just over 4 metres at most, but in September, the combination of a Supermoon and an equinox will result in a maximum tidal range of 5.3 metres. As this “Great King Tide” will give us 0.0-0.2 metres at low tide, I’m looking forward to exploring some stretches of the shoreline with the camera that are not usually accessible. Also, a high tide of 5.1-5.3 metres will occur around sunset, hopefully giving me some good opportunities to capture some colourful reflections in the submerged salt marshes that are likely to be found in certain places.
 
So, although August’s Moon photography plan didn’t work out, fingers crossed September’s will.

​Despite its appearance, cottongrass, also known as bog cotton or ghost grass is neither cotton or grass. It is in fact a sedge, which is a group of plants that are closely related to grasses. Three species of cottongrass are likely to be found in Scotland: Hare’s-tail Cottongrass, Common Cottongrass and Broad-leaved Cottongrass. All three love damp, acidic environments so are well at home in the peat filled salt marsh that is at Ardmolich.
 
Hare’s-tail cottongrass has just one ‘cotton’ head at the tip of its stem in the form of a tidy, almost spherical tuft, reminiscent of the tail of a rabbit or hare, hence the name. On the other hand, broad-leaved cottongrass and common cottongrass both have several and more unkempt ‘cotton’ heads drooping from their stems that look a bit like cotton wool that has been pulled apart. Having looked at the plants I was photographing, I decided that they were common cottongrass because of the narrow leaves and stems that they had.
 
I wandered around the salt marsh, carefully making my way around innumerable water pools and across countless tussocks until I found myself in the middle of a sea of white, fluffy seed heads gently swaying in the slight morning breeze. I knelt down to take a closer look at the tufts of ‘cotton’ and found myself with an eye level view across the top of them to the hills at the other end of Loch Moidart. It was from there that I took my first photograph, using a long focal length to compress and emphasise the sea of white that floated before me.

​With the wide perspective shot taken, I focused my time on taking a series of shots that captured the cotton grass in more detail, eventually homing in on a single plant that I was able to isolate from all the others around it by using careful composition and a wide aperture. Coming to the end of doing this, I began to wonder if this fluffy, delicate plant had been used for anything in the past and if it had any folklore associated with it.
 
Unsurprisingly, one of the primary historic uses of cottongrass was as a stuffing material, particularly by rural communities where resources were limited, and every available material was put to good use. I found references to its downy fibres being used as an insulating stuffing for pillows, mattresses, for lining shoes and even as an absorbent pad for infants to use at night instead of a nappy.
 
When it comes to Scottish folklore, one common theme appears to be the association of cottongrass with the faeries. A number of tales describe cottongrass as one of their favourite plants because they used the soft, fluffy tufts to make their beds, while other tales have described patches of cotton grass swaying gently in the wind as the sight of faeries dancing.
 
However, it is in Shetland where the clearest association of cottongrass and mystical beings exists. It is known locally as Lucka Minnie’s Oo, or wool. A witch from Shetland folklore, Lucka Minnie, was said to roam the hills in summer to collect this wool, which she’d process on a card obtained from the faeries and then use it to knit her clothes.
 
When I tried to find out a bit more about her, I came across two conflicting stories. One described her as a fearful ‘trow’ or troll who met her end while chasing after a young boy who she’d intended to eat for her dinner. The other painted her as a rather benevolent character who would guide lost travellers through treacherous boglands by revealing paths marked by distinctive clumps of cottongrass. I guess that if one were to be true, I hope it would be the latter, which I think would be a fitting tale to link with the delicately beautiful tufts that are the seed heads of the cottongrass.

While foxgloves, scientifically known as Digitalis purpurea, are undoubtedly striking plants, they are renowned for their potent medicinal properties and have played a key role in treating heart conditions. In the late 18th century, the English physician William Withering discovered that digitalis, an extract from the foxglove, contained digitoxin and digoxin. These two compounds help strengthen and regulate the force of the heart contractions and have been used to treat irregular heartbeats and manage the symptoms of heart failure.
 
In the past, digitalis has had other medicinal uses and was listed in Nicholas Culpeper’s 1652 herbal medicine guide, The English Physician, as a treatment for “the falling sickness”, or epilepsy. One famous person who may have been treated with digitalis for epileptic seizures was Vincent Van Gogh. Many art historians believe that the yellow haze that this would cause in the sight of patients receiving this type of treatment may be responsible for his “yellow period”. This was a time when yellow dominated many of his paintings, and particularly The Starry Night, a painting in which a yellow corona surrounded the moon and each star in it.

​Another myth tells of the foxglove’s bell-shaped flowers being used as little hats or homes by faeries, with children often warned against picking them to avoid offending the fairies who might live inside them and to not bring misfortune upon themselves.
 
Foxgloves were also thought to have protective properties and hanging a sprig of foxglove outside a house was believed to ward off evil spirits and protect the inhabitants from harm. While in some areas, foxgloves were planted around homes and barns to safeguard against witchcraft and to ensure the health and safety of livestock.
 
Alternative folklore suggest that the name “foxglove” comes from the idea that the flowers are the right size and shape for foxes to wear on their paws. According to this legend, foxes, known for their slyness and stealth, would put the flowers over their paws to muffle their footsteps as they hunted or avoided predators. This idea not only highlighted the fox’s cunning nature but also lent an almost magical quality to the foxglove plant, suggesting that it provided some supernatural aid to these clever animals.

​The narrative begins with their construction, in a time when the Scottish Highlands was sparsely populated, and life was dictated by the seasons. Back then they would have had sturdy stone walls with rounded corners to help combat the wind and treasured timbers would have supported a thatched roof. The use of locally sourced materials in these parts of the building standing as a testament to the craftsmanship and ingenuity of the crofters who had to live in harmony with their surroundings in order to survive.
 
One can only imagine the challenges faced as the occupants practiced subsistence farming, growing crops like barley, oats and potatoes, and rearing a few cattle and sheep. However, despite the hardships, my sense is that the crofting way of life fostered a strong sense of community and mutual dependence, with the crofters working together during peak times, such as at harvest time and peat cutting.
 
Indeed, the communal working and gatherings at important agricultural milestones would have provided opportunities for celebrating together. So, when I look at these houses, I can almost hear the murmur of voices and the echoes of laughter as the families shared stories and songs that passed from one generation to the next.

​The landscape surrounding the house is equally integral to its story. Whether it be rolling hillside, open moorland, sand dunes or rocky foreshore, a photograph of a croft house set against a vast and rugged landscape speaks to the symbiotic relationship between the crofters and their environment. It’s a story of respect for nature and one that changes with the seasons.
 
In spring, the landscape might be carpeted with blossoming wildflowers, symbolising renewal and hope. Summer’s light might cast a red glow across the walls and roof of the house, bringing a sense of warmth and security. Autumn introduces a palette of golds and oranges, a time of harvest and preparation for the winter ahead. Finally, in winter, the house, perhaps dusted with snow, stands as a beacon of warmth and safety amid the stark, cold landscape.
 
Although stone built walls and thatched roofs have been replaced by white rendered walls and slate roofs to give us the croft houses we see today, these buildings still captivate my imagination and permeate a sense of history and heritage. To me, they are more than just structures; they are a living, breathing testament to the resilience of the people who have endured centuries of hardship and adversity to call this rugged landscape home.
 
Such scenes speak to me and tell me a story not just of survival, but one of thriving in harmony with the land, drawing strength from the beauty and harshness of nature and this is perhaps why I find both my eye and my camera drawn to them.

​In my mind, the cuckoo is one of the most iconic migratory birds to visit us each year. Its distinctive "cuck-oo" or "coo-coo" call resonates through misty mornings and still evenings, carrying promises of warmer days and the vibrant rebirth of flora and fauna. In addition to this, the bird itself is intertwined with various superstitions and legends.
 
One prevalent belief is that the timing of the cuckoo's arrival can predict the weather for the upcoming season. If the cuckoo is heard early in the spring, it was said to foretell a warm and prosperous summer ahead. Conversely, a late arrival was thought to signal a cold and harsh season, causing anxiety among farmers and villagers who relied on favourable weather for their livelihoods.
 
The cuckoo's association with prophecy extends beyond meteorological predictions and into matters of love and luck. In some Scottish communities, it was believed that hearing the first call of the cuckoo could bring fortune to couples seeking to conceive a child. Newlyweds would eagerly await the arrival of the cuckoo, hoping that its call would bless their union with fertility and abundance.
 
However, not all superstitions surrounding the cuckoo were benign. In certain folklore traditions, the cuckoo was viewed with suspicion and even fear, often being portrayed as a symbol of deceit and trickery. One particularly ominous belief is the notion of the "cuckoo's curse," which suggests that hearing the bird's call on certain days, especially Sundays or while in bed, could bring misfortune or even death to the listener or their family.
 
The mysterious nature of the cuckoo is further accentuated by its peculiar habits, including its brood parasitism behaviour. Unlike most birds, which build nests and care for their young, the cuckoo lays its eggs in the nests of other bird species, relying on them to raise its offspring. This behaviour has led to the cuckoo being associated with themes of deception and betrayal in folklore, because it exploits the labour and resources of unwitting foster parents.
 
Beyond its cultural significance, the cuckoo's presence also serves as a barometer of ecological health, reflecting the condition of its breeding habitat and the availability of its preferred food sources. Concerns about habitat loss, climate change, and the decline of insect populations have led to conservation efforts aimed at preserving and restoring the cuckoo's habitat. They include protecting vital breeding grounds, restoring degraded ecosystems, and raising awareness about the importance of migratory birds.
 
Despite these efforts, the cuckoo faces an uncertain future in Scotland. Like many migratory birds, it must navigate a perilous journey here which is fraught with challenges, while avoiding predation and dealing with climate-induced disruptions in food availability. In addition, its dependence on other species, such as the reed warbler and meadow pipit, for egg incubation and chick rearing further complicates its conservation.
 
Yet, amidst these challenges, there is cause for hope. The resilience of the cuckoo, coupled with the dedication of conservationists and the support of local communities, offers a glimmer of optimism for its continued survival. By fostering greater awareness, understanding, and appreciation for this charismatic bird the conservationists hope that they can ensure that future generations will be able to delight in the timeless spectacle of the cuckoo's arrival in a Scottish spring. I, for one, hope that they succeed.

The blue hour occurs twice a day, just before sunrise and just after sunset, so you might be thinking that it is simply the time of day known as twilight, but there is a little more to it than that. This first thing to know is that there are three phases of twilight: civil twilight, when the Sun is between 0° and -6° below the horizon; nautical twilight, when it is between -6° and -12° below; and astronomical twilight, when it is between -12° and -18°below.
​
During civil twilight, there is still colour in the sky, and it is light enough to see objects clearly; the sky is darker during nautical twilight and by astronomical twilight it's almost completely dark. The evening blue hour is the period of transition from civil to nautical twilight (or vice versa in the morning), when the Sun is between -4° and -8° below the horizon.

At this time, the longer red wavelengths of light from the Sun pass straight out into space and the shorter, blue wavelengths are scattered in the atmosphere. The result is a rich and saturated cool blue colour that is incredibly atmospheric, so if romance and mystery are your thing, this really is a great time head out with your camera.

Before you do though, you should know that despite its name, the blue hour only lasts for 20-40 minutes depending on your location, the time of year and atmospheric conditions. At this time of year here on the Peninsula, it begins at about 20 minutes after sunset and at 45 minutes before sunrise. In either case it lasts for around 20 minutes, so the opportunity for photography is fleeting, but nonetheless very rewarding.

​Beyond its aesthetic appeal, I find the blue hour to be an incredibly tranquil and thought-provoking time of day, and this is especially true of the evening blue hour. I’m not sure what it is, but this “in-between time” during which day transitions into night, I feel compelled to pause and appreciate the beauty of that exact moment. This is especially true if I’m out in the landscape alone with my camera because moments of such solitude bring a real sense of peace and stillness that allow me to disconnect from any stresses or challenges that I may have experienced during the day.
 
As the blue hour comes to an end, the sky transforms from the canvas of rich blues that I was photographing to a deepening shade of indigo. With this comes the gradual unveiling of the stars, with each one sparkling ever brighter as the sky darkens. As more and more stars become visible, I am often struck by the vastness of the cosmos and with this comes strong feelings of awe and humility due to Earth’s true insignificance.
 
The sheer scale of the Universe, with its billions of galaxies each containing billions of stars, puts into perspective the minuscule size and fleeting existence of our home planet. It is a mere speck of dust in the cosmic ocean and seems so inconsequential in comparison to the unimaginable expanses of space stretching out in all directions. It is in these moments that I am reminded of the transient nature of human existence. Yet, amidst this feeling of smallness, there is also a sense of wonder and curiosity. The very fact that we can contemplate our place in the Universe, that we can marvel at the stars and ponder the mysteries of existence, is a testament to the extraordinary capabilities of the human mind. It is in moments like this that I just love catching the blues.

​I guess I ended up thinking about the difference between the two because photography, as both an art form and a technical skill, involves a delicate balance between knowledge and wisdom. Indeed, a photographer’s ability to capture compelling images is influenced not only by technical know-how but also by the nuanced application of wisdom.
 
Knowledge in its fundamental form is gained by the acquisition of information, facts, and skills which, in the case of photography, encompasses an understanding of things such as camera settings, composition rules, lighting techniques, and post-processing tools. It is the photographer's proficiency in handling equipment, choosing the right exposure, and manipulating elements within the frame that provides the necessary foundation for capturing technically sound images.
 
In contrast, wisdom goes beyond the mere possession of such information and the technicalities of taking a photograph. It allows photographers to determine the relevance of various pieces of the information that make up their knowledge and how best to apply it to their own work. To my mind, a wise photographer understands that a compelling image is not solely about pixel-perfect technical execution but about conveying a story, evoking emotions or capturing the essence of a moment.
 
One key distinction between the two lies in how they are acquired. Knowledge can be obtained through formal education, reading and observation. It is quantifiable and can be measured in terms of proficiency in a specific field or the retention of factual details. I’m sure everyone will remember dreaded exams at school that aimed to do just this. Wisdom, on the other hand, is cultivated over time and often matures through a combination of life experiences and introspection, and a willingness to learn from both successes and failures. It certainly can’t be measured in a way that knowledge can be.
 
When thinking about the image above, my sense is that wisdom encouraged me to make thoughtful decisions about what to include in the frame and what to exclude from it, it helped me recognise the emotional impact of light and encouraged me to wait the time I did to take the photograph. The result was that I pressed the shutter button just when the conditions were right and created an image that conveyed the emotions that I wanted it to.
 
In my photographic journey, like many people I guess, I began it by acquiring knowledge through learning the basics of composition, exposure, and editing techniques. It was only after I understood these basics that I was able to practice, try photography under different conditions and, probably most importantly of all, learn from my successes and failures.
 
Recently, I have been reviewing images that I took a few years ago, and comparing those that invoke some form of emotional response with those that don’t. By doing this, I’m working on identifying recurring themes, styles, and subjects that resonate with me. My hope is that by incorporating these elements into my future work, I can refine my artistic style and more consistently create images that resonate deeply with not only myself, but also audiences that view them.

​The summit of Ben Nevis is notorious for unpredictable and often harsh weather conditions that are constantly influenced by North Atlantic weather systems. The mountain is in an area that experiences a significant amount of precipitation, averaging around 4,406 mm of rain annually. This, combined with the mountain's height, creates a perfect environment for cloud formation. The warm and moist air from the Atlantic meets its high peaks, resulting in the frequent presence of clouds. In fact, its summit is only visible for an average of 30 days per year, making it extremely elusive and therefore a challenge to photograph. However, I am hoping that with a little planning, patience, and persistence, I will eventually get the shot that I have in my mind’s eye.
 
Planning is the cornerstone of successful landscape photography and involves thorough research and preparation before heading out to a location. In this instance, the factors to consider are weather conditions, time of day, and the position of the sun. For the shot I’m after, I’m looking for an unobscured snow-covered summit with warm sunlight falling on the sides of Ben Nevis that are visible from Lochan Doire a' Bhraghaid some 17 miles to its southwest. This means that the shot needs to be taken on a morning during a cold and clear spell of weather in the months of December, January and potentially February because this is when the sun will be rising in the right place. I used various topographic maps and sun tracking apps to help me pick these months and various weather forecasts help me decide which days to go out on.
 
Next up is patience. Nature does not always cooperate, and capturing the perfect shot often requires waiting for the right moment. The ideal lighting, weather conditions, and natural elements may not align immediately so I often find myself waiting an hour or more before I feel that the time is right to press the shutter button. On the morning I took the image above, I arrived before sunrise to see that the summit of Ben Nevis was clear. I therefore set up my tripod, framed the shot and waited in anticipation of Sun rising to bath it in a warm pink glow. However, it was not to be because a bank of cloud rolled in from the north and obscured the summit just as sunlight began to fall on the mountain.
 
So finally, this is where persistence comes in, because it involves a commitment to returning to a location time and time again until the conditions are just right. In this instance, the lighting may have been perfect, but the weather did not cooperate. It was tantalisingly close, but that 1 in 12 chance of the summit being clear conspired against me and I didn’t quite get the shot I was looking for. In fact, I have returned to Lochan Doire a' Bhraghaid a few times since to capture that “elusive peak”, only to be met with no success.
 
Never mind though. The thrill of landscape photography is often to do with the “chase” and when the conditions eventually do align, the resulting image will be more than enough reward for all the planning, patience, and persistence. Until then, I look forward to the day when I can share the image that I have in my mind’s eye with you.

​Buck Moon: 21 July at 11:17 am
July is the month when the new antlers of buck deer grow larger. This full Moon was named in recognition of this phase of antler growth, indicating the maturity and strength of the bucks.
 
Super Sturgeon Moon: 19 August at 7:25 pm
August was associated with the abundance of sturgeon fish in lakes and rivers of North America and the Sturgeon Moon acknowledges the significance of this large fish in the ecosystems during this time.
 
Super Harvest Moon:  18 September at 3:34 am
This is the full Moon closest to the autumnal equinox. Its name comes from the extra light it provides during the evenings, allowing farmers more time to harvest their crops as the days shorten.

​Super Hunter’s Moon: 17 October at 12:26 pm
Following the Harvest Moon, the Hunter's Moon was associated with the time to hunt and prepare for winter. It provides additional light for hunters pursuing game in the waning light of autumn.
 
Super Beaver Moon: 15 November at 9:28 pm
November is when beavers actively build their winter dams in preparation for the colder months and the Beaver Moon recognises this industrious activity.
 
Cold Moon: 15 December at 9:01 am
As December brings the coldest temperatures of the year in many places, the Cold Moon emphasises the chill in the air and the onset of winter's full force.
 
You’ll also see that four of the full moons will be supermoons. It’s when the Moon is at its closest to us in its elliptical orbit and will appear bigger and brighter than normal, so do look out for them then.

​The beauty of a crescent moon is very subjective and is very much down to personal preference, but I do find it particularly captivating when the Moon is visible at sunset or sunrise. This timing allows a crescent moon to appear against the backdrop of the colourful twilight sky and create a striking visual contrast just like it did on the evening when I took this month’s photograph. I was absolutely captivated by the sight of it hanging in the sky just above the hills of Morvern and the orange glow from a setting Sun.

​This captivating and beautiful celestial sight has been historically associated with various myths and cultural beliefs and predominant themes seem to be ones of renewal and transformation. In various religious contexts, a crescent moon holds specific meanings. In some pagan and Wiccan traditions, the crescent moon is considered a symbol of the feminine divine, representing cycles, intuition, and the ever-changing nature of life, while in Hinduism, it is associated with various deities, including Shiva and Parvati and the waxing and waning of the Moon is said to represent the cycle of life, death, and rebirth.
 
However, it is in Islam where the crescent moon perhaps features most prominently and is seen on top of minarets and mosques, and on the flags of many Muslim countries. Representing the beginning of the lunar month, it is used to determine the timing of important Islamic events and holidays, such as Ramadan, the ninth month of the Islamic lunar calendar.  This month is a time of fasting, prayer, reflection, and community for Muslims worldwide and the crescent moon plays a crucial role at its beginning and end. The sighting of the new crescent moon marks the end of the month of Sha'ban and the beginning of Ramadan, while the sighting of the crescent moon at the end of Ramadan signifies the end of the fasting period and the celebration of Eid al-Fitr, a festival that marks the end of Ramadan.

​Given how captivating the sight of a crescent moon can be, it is perhaps little wonder that it plays a role in several of the World’s cultures and religions, but whatever your beliefs are, it is certainly a sight worth seeing. So, if you are an early riser, look out for it in the east at sunrise on the mornings just before a new moon and if you are a night owl, look for it in the west at sunset a few days later. You won’t be disappointed.

​So how dark is a dark sky? Well, I have measured the darkness of the sky at various locations on the Peninsula using a device called a Sky Quality Meter (SQM) and obtained readings of between 21 and 22.5. To give you an idea of what this means, you would get a reading of around 8 in the middle of a major city such as Glasgow or Edinburgh and a reading of 24 would be measured in a photographer's dark room. So on some night, we are very near to total darkness, meaning that the Peninsula is a great place to enjoy a spot of stargazing.

​Castle Tioram, Moidart: Turn off the A861 just north of Acharacle and 2 miles down a narrow single track which should be driven with care. Once there you get good lines of sight in all directions except East. From the shore a little north of the car park, you can look out south and west to see the Milky Way and look North to catch the Northern Lights. Do not go out to the Castle as you may get caught out with the tide.
 
Old Boat House, Ardtornish Estate, Morvern: A flat area of hardstanding, located between the shore and the track to Ardtornish Castle about 200 metres before the Old Boathouse on the shore of Lochaline. Park in the Estate Farm Courtyard where their Gift Shop is located and walk to the area near the boathouse from there.
 
Ardnamurchan Lighthouse: Anywhere within the grounds of the Lighthouse Visitor Centre complex, but stay on the designated paths, picnic areas and carparks as this will keep you away from cliffs and sharp drops into the sea, which you must avoid in the dark. Clear views of the sky in all directions and the darkest place on the Peninsula due to its most westerly location. Bear in mind that overnight parking is not permitted on the site.

​The best time to start stargazing is from 2 hours after sunset, when the sky is as dark as it gets. Also, it is best to do it in the week either side of a new Moon, when there is little or no moonlight to spoil the show. You can check the Sun and Moon times at www.thetimeandplace.info to decide what time is best and if you do go out:
 
Use your naked eyes – You can see a lot with just your naked eyes, just give them 10-15 minutes to adjust fully to the dark and you’ll suddenly find that you’ll see twice as many stars.
 
Use a red torch – Once your eyes have adjusted, avoid using bright white lights because it is very easy to lose your “night vision”. Instead use a red headlight or torch because this doesn’t affect you night vision.

Stay warm – Clear, dark nights are often very cold, so wear plenty of layers, a hat and gloves and think about using heat wraps or charcoal hand warmers.

Use Star Charts – These can be downloaded free from www.skymaps.com. You can also use one of the many smartphone apps that are available. I find Pocket Universe very good.

​When you are out, the things to look out for are:
 
Milky Way – Look directly overhead during autumn and early winter evenings and you'll see this shimmering river of light streaming through the constellations of Cassiopeia and Cygnus.

Northern Lights – They can happen at any time of the year, but the best time is around the autumn and spring equinoxes because the geomagnetic activity that causes them hits the Earth’s atmosphere at just the right angle. Check the AuroraWatch UK website for alerts.

Stars and Constellations – Look south in the next few months and you’ll see the grand constellations of winter: Orion, Taurus, Auriga, Perseus, Cassiopeia, Gemini, and Canis Major.  They are rich with stars and star clusters, with the most brilliant stars being Capella, Castor and Pollux, Procyon, Sirius, Rigel, Aldebaran, and Betelgeuse.

Planets – You’ll be able to find each of the visible planets of Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn at some point throughout the year. However, their position in the sky each month varies from year to year, so do check a night sky guide to find out which ones you will see.
 
Meteor Showers – They happen at predictable times throughout the year. Look out for the annual Quadrantids (January), Lyrids (April), Perseids (August), Orionids (October), Leonids (November) and Geminids (December). When looking for them, spend at least an hour outside doing so because they tend to happen in fits and starts and beforehand, check the meteor shower guide at www.earthsky.org for the best times to look.
 
Finally, you can learn more about what to look for by checking out my monthly night sky guides on this website, which you can find by clicking here.