​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.

​The concept of “thin places” has been woven into the tapestry of Celtic folklore and spirituality for centuries, being used to describe places where the boundary between the physical world and a mystical, historical or spiritual world is believed to be exceptionally thin, thus facilitating a sense of connection between the two.
 
In thin places, you might feel a sense of awe and heightened awareness of being in the presence of something greater than yourself and, as such, they are often characterised by an otherworldly atmosphere, where the ordinary and the extraordinary intermingle. This is certainly something I can say about Ariundle Oakwood, a place where each ancient tree and each moss-covered boulder seems to harbour mystical beings waiting to be unveiled.
 
When you stand in a thin place you may instead find your imagination ignited by thoughts of what has been before you. This historical imagination can transport you to a different era, picturing scenes from the past as if they were unfolding right before your eyes. Camas nan Geall is a place where I get this feeling.
 
This “Bay of the Strangers” is a fascinating place because it contains evidence of human presence that covers a period of several millennia of human history. This ranges from a Neolithic chambered cairn to deserted clearance dwellings and includes a number of things in-between. The chambered cairn in the centre of the bay may seem quite innocuous, but when you stand next to it and consider that people buried their dead there some 5000-6000 years before, you cannot help but feel a sense of what has gone before.
 
Perhaps more poignant though, are the ruins of Torr na Mòine and Bourblaige up on the slopes of Ben Hiant which were settlements that were home to the people of Camas Nan Geall before they were forcibly evicted in the 19th century so that the land could be used for a sheep farm. It’s hard to comprehend the hardship and trauma that these people suffered from being suddenly cleared from their ancestral lands by the landowner for primarily economic reasons.
 
Finally, the Old Parish Church in Kilchoan is a place where I feel that there is a thin veil between our physical world and the spiritual world. It is a hauntingly peaceful place that seems to compel you to tread carefully and with due deference to ground that has played host to a place of worship from some 700 years.
 
Giving Kilchoan its name, this Church of St Comghan must have been incredibly important to the local community as a place where they could come together not only to worship but to also seek fellowship and support. Indeed, a walk around the graveyard that surrounds the church to look at gravestones that date from as far back as the 14th century and as recent as the 1990’s, pays testament to just how long this “thin place” has provided spiritual succour to the community.
 
There are many other places on the Peninsula to which I have felt a sense of the mystical, historical or spiritual and this most likely stems from my photography encouraging me to slow down and take time to get a real sense of a place before I ever think of pressing the shutter button. However, you don’t need a camera to experience the profound ways in which certain locations can inspire feelings of connectivity to a different realm. You can just slow down, look, listen and feel when you next find yourself in a place that you sense you might be connected to.

​As well as being a month of beautiful sunsets, August has traditionally held a special place for those that work the land. As the crops ripened and fields were abundant with the fruits of their labour, communities would come together to celebrate and give thanks for the bountiful harvest by holding a harvest festival.
 
In Scotland, harvest festivals known as Lughnasadh or Lammas were celebrated around the first of August to mark the beginning of the harvest season.
 
Lammas has its roots in ancient Celtic and Pagan traditions and one of the key customs was the cutting of the first sheaf of grain, which was often made into a corn dolly, symbolizing the spirit of the harvest. This corn dolly was usually kept in the home until the following spring when it would be ploughed back into the fields to ensure a good harvest for the next year.
 
Traditionally, Lammas Day Fairs were held across the length and breadth of Scotland and were marked by bonfires, races, dancing and games. ‘Feeing Markets’, where the farm labourers would seek out new employment were often held at these events, but the big attraction was the “Marriage Market” at which people would be handfasted.
 
Handfasting has its roots in Celtic tradition and is the symbolic binding or betrothal of two people. Conducted by a priest, the ceremony itself typically involved a couple holding hands and having them bound together with cords, ribbons, or a ceremonial cloth while they made their vows and commitments to each other. Hence the phrase, “tying the knot”.
 
By “tying the knot”, the couple entered into a period of engagement, or trial marriage. This trial would typically last a year and during this time the couple were encouraged to cohabitate together (and consummate the relationship). After the year was over, they would return to the priest, declare their intent to be wed and be married soon thereafter. If they decided they were not a good match, the couple were allowed to dissolve their hand-fast and became free to choose another suitor and bride.
 
In modern times, handfasting has been adapted and incorporated into various wedding ceremonies as a meaningful and unique ritual. Couples who choose to include handfasting in their weddings often see it as a way to add personal and cultural significance to their union.
 
Reflecting on all of this, I find it fascinating that despite our modern-day year being predominantly based on the Gregorian calendar and Christian holidays, ancient Celtic traditions continue to influence and define significant events and ceremonies in the months of our calendar and our life.

​For me, taking a picture refers to the act of quickly capturing a moment, scene, or subject without much thought or consideration. It can be spontaneous, casual, and primarily focused on preserving memories or documenting an event. The emphasis is on the subject itself rather than the photographer's creative interpretation. In this sense, taking a picture is often associated with casual photography, such as snapshots, selfies, or everyday moments captured on the go.
 
On the other hand, making a picture is a deliberate and intentional process in which the photographer uses their technical and creative skills to transform a scene or subject into a visually compelling image. The focus shifts from simply recording what is in front of the camera to crafting an image that conveys a specific message and evokes certain emotions.
 
When taking a picture, you typically rely on the automatic settings of a camera or smartphone, allowing the device to make decisions about technical aspects such as exposure and focus. The priority is to capture the moment quickly and efficiently. In contrast, making a picture often involves a more involved manual approach, where you take control of the camera settings to achieve a desired aesthetic. In landscape photography, this typically involves selecting the right lens and focal length; adjusting the aperture, shutter speed and ISO; and reading the weather and light conditions to determine the best place and time to press the shutter button.
 
Taking the image above as an example, I planned and made repeated visits to a particular spot at Ardtoe at this time of the year because I knew that I would see the Sun setting behind the Isle of Eigg from there.  The specific days on which I made these visits were determined by the weather conditions, with me looking for low cloud directly overhead and gaps in the clouds on the western horizon through which light from the setting Sun would shine.  
 
I chose a lens with a long focal length, that would bring the distinctive silhouette of An Sgùrr on Eigg closer to the skerry of Sgeir an Eidigh. I set the aperture so that both would be in focus because they were key elements of the story. I set the ISO and shutter speed to let the correct amount of light into the camera when using a long exposure time to smooth out the sea so that it would not detract from these key elements.
 
Finally, I waited with great anticipation for the rays of light to break through the clouds and light up An Sgùrr to create the perfect moment to press the shutter button. It was only then that I was able to make the image that I had in my mind’s eye. A simple but distinctive image that conveyed the dramatic beauty of a mid-summer sunset that featured the unmistakeable profile of An Sgùrr on the Isle of Eigg.
 
So, although both picture taking and picture making have their place in photography, it’s the latter that I find the most satisfying. You have to be prepared for disappointments and failures along the way, but with planning, patience, and persistence, you will be rewarded with images that go beyond mere documentation to capture and evoke the emotions you felt at the precise moment you pressed the shutter button.

​Well, it seems that these little plants that spend most of the year as bulbs underground in our woodlands and hillsides, are what botanists call ‘wood hyacinths’ or “Hyacinthoides con-scripta” and have been given the common name of “English Bluebell” because their flowers are indeed blue, and they are indeed shaped like a bell.

​What about the Scottish Bluebell though? Well, do you remember Scottish Bluebell Matches and the delicate blue and bell-shaped flowers on the matchbox? These are completely different from the “blue bells” on the plants in our woodlands. They are in fact “Campanula rotundifolia”, a creeping, rooted perennial that flowers from July to September and more commonly known as the Harebell. It favours dry, grassy places, so you will find it in the dry land around our sandy beaches as opposed to in our damp, shady woodlands.
​
Many English Bluebell tales involve dark fairy magic with bluebell woods being portrayed as scary, forbidding places that should be avoided. For example, if you do enter a bluebell wood, you should never pick or step on a bluebell for fear of breaking a spell that a faerie has hung on one of the flowers. If you do break a faerie spell, they will get extremely upset, seek you out and enchant you in such a way that you would be drawn further into the woods to wander lost for evermore.

​Folklore says that you also need to be careful with the Scottish Bluebell because its common name is rooted in magic. Some say that the name “Harebell” was given to the flower because witches would turn themselves into hares and hide among them. It may also be the reason why the names Witch's Thimbles and Witch Bells were used for the flowers.

​So, there you have it. Hyacinths or Harebells? English Bluebells and Scottish Bluebells? Different plants linked by a common name and a whole lot of myth and legend, both of which you should not damage for fear of being visited by angry faeries, witches or indeed, the Aul’ Man himself.

​Beltane marks the beginning of summer in the Northern Hemisphere and is considered one of the four major seasonal Celtic festivals along with Samhain, Imbolc, and Lughnasadh. As well as joy and renewal, Beltane is often associated with fertility, abundance, and growth, and has been celebrated for centuries with feasting, dancing, and bonfires.

​​In ancient times, bonfires would be lit on hilltops to honour the sun and promote fertility. The bonfire would be the centrepiece of the Beltane celebrations, symbolising the return of the sun and the warmth of summer. It was also believed to have protective and purifying powers, and people would jump over the flames or pass through them as a form of ritual cleansing and purification. They would also drive their livestock between the fires, believing that the smoke and ashes would protect them from disease and bring fertility to the animals.

​I grew up in a large council estate called Burnfoot. It was built between the 1950s and 1970s and, in the early part of these years, a group of local people decided to revive the Beltane traditions and create a festival that would celebrate community and bring the people of this new housing estate together. Central to the festival was the crowning of a local girl as the Burnfoot Queen who, like the May Queens of the past, was chosen for her character and community spirit, and was considered to be a role model for other young people living on the estate.
 
I remember the crowning ceremony to be a big occasion. It was attended by a large crowd of locals and visitors and once it had taken place, there would be procession through the estate, with the Burnfoot Queen at its head, on an elaborately decorated float. To the small boy that I was, the parade was a colourful and lively event, featuring floats and displays from local businesses and organisations. So much so, that it would bring together people of all ages and backgrounds to celebrate what was known as the Burnfoot Festival and ultimately the community of Burnfoot.
 
As far as I’m aware, this Festival still takes place and I find it fascinating how this event from my distant childhood memories was a revival of Beltane traditions that can be traced back to pre-Christian times in Scotland. 

​The Ardgour War Memorial is typical of the many that you find scattered across the Highlands, consisting of a granite Celtic cross and plinth mounted on a base of what seems to be made of local stone. Whilst here, I took a moment to stand by it with my eye drawn to the wreath of red poppies that had been laid at the base of the cross and to the words inscribed on the plinth beneath it:

​I then noticed that the Memorial’s stone base was sitting on what appeared to be a metal ring with several bolts protruding from it. I didn’t give them much thought at the time, but a day or two later, I couldn’t help wondering what they had been used for, so decided to try and found out.

​The mines were being used in the North Sea Mine Barrage, a large minefield laid easterly from the Orkney Islands, right across the top of the North Sea to Norway with the aim of preventing the U-Boats based in Germany from making their way out into the Atlantic to attack the convoys that were bringing supplies from the United States to the British Isles.

The vernal (spring) equinox on 20 March heralds the arrival of spring and it is a great time of the year for observing one of the night sky’s most elusive phenomena: zodiacal light. This light will appear as a false dusk that is created by a triangular beam of light from the Sun being reflected off a fog of tiny interplanetary dust particles when it is beneath the horizon.  It’s so difficult to see and many astronomers have never witnessed it, however, I was lucky enough to spot and photograph it at Castle Tioram on a dark moonless night on the first day of March last year. It should be visible on dark moonless nights over the next few weeks, so do keep an eye out for it.
​

​Have you ever been outside at this time of the year, looking west and noticed what you think is lingering evening twilight, or the light of a nearby town shining up from the horizon? If so, you may well have seen zodiacal light in the sky and not realised.
 
It is a triangular beam of light that shines along the line of the Zodiac, an 8° wide band that straddles the ecliptic, the invisible path that the Sun traces as it moves around the sky. It is the region of the sky where we can find the Sun, Moon and planets and is only 8° wide because most of the planets have orbits that are only slightly inclined to that of the Earth. The exception is Pluto, whose inclination of 17° takes it out of the Zodiac during part of its orbit.
 
At this time of year, the Zodiac rises steeply from the horizon at dusk meaning zodiacal light does the same. People used to think that it originated somehow from phenomena in the Earth’s upper atmosphere, but today we understand it as sunlight reflecting off dust grains that circle the sun in the inner solar system, along the line of the Zodiac.
 
The grains of dust were once thought to be left over from the process that created our Earth and the other planets of our solar system around 4.5 billion years ago, but in recent years, there’s been discussion about them originating from dust storms on the planet Mars. They are thought to be about a millimetre and less in size, densest around the immediate vicinity of the Sun and extending outward beyond the orbit of Mars and, when sunlight shines on these dust grains, it creates the light we see.

​The light is fainter than the Milky Way, so the darker the night sky, the better chances of seeing it. It is best to go to a location with little or no night pollution, on a night when the moon is out of the sky and look for it in the west in the hour or two after sunset. If you are lucky, you may spot it as a ghostly pyramid of light rising steeply from the horizon.
 
The best time to look for it in the coming month will be on the days either side of the equinox (20 March) as this coincides with a New Moon, meaning that there will be no moonlight to drown it out. With Venus and Jupiter, our night sky’s two brightest planets, being low down in the west after sunset, they’ll be visible close to or in the zodiacal light. Shortly after, on 23 and 24 March there will also be a thin crescent Moon sitting in the midst of the triangular beam of light as it shines upwards from beneath the western horizon.
 
If you don’t see it in the next few weeks, you can try again in the autumn, but instead of looking for it in the west at dusk, you need to look for it in the east at dawn. This is because the Zodiac elliptic rises steeply from the eastern horizon at dawn in the autumn instead of rising steeply from the western horizon after dusk in the spring.

In 2015, the UK Met Office and its Irish counterpart Met Éireann launched the "Name Our Storms" campaign to raise public awareness of severe weather and to create a single naming system that could be used to aid the communication of approaching severe weather. The result was a list of names that could be used for the 2015/16 storm season, running from early September of 2015 to late August 2016, with further such lists for every year since then.
 
This campaign proved to be particularly effective at gaining attention on social media and reaching groups of people that had previously been difficult to engage with, meaning that in general, the public became better placed to keep themselves, their property, and businesses safe during major storm events. Such was its success, that the Royal Netherlands Meteorological Institute (KNMI) joined the initiative in 2019, recognising that it made a lot of sense to give common names to such extreme weather events.
 
So now, from around June each year, members of the public from all three participating countries are asked to suggest names for the coming storm season so that a list of selected names can be published on the first day of September. The list is made up of alternating male and female names for each letter of the alphabet, except for Q, U, X, Y and Z. The reason these letters are not used is that there are not many names that begin with them.
 
Going back to 2015, the first ever name was used to name Storm Abigail, a storm that brought strong winds and heavy rain to much of the UK on 12-13 November 2015, with the most severe weather impacting the northwest of Scotland where power cuts affected up to 20,000 homes and many schools were forced to close for the day.
 
Returning to this year, the first name for this current storm season was selected by KNMI. It is Antoni and along with Hendrika, Johanna and Loes, is named after an influential Dutch scientist. Met Éireann’s submissions include Cillian, Fleur, Íde, and Nelly and the Met Office’s names include Betty, Daisy, Glen, Khalid and Owain and show the breadth of names in use across the UK. In fact, Betty became the runaway winner of a public vote on Met Office Twitter, with over 12,000 votes cast to select it as the name for the letter B.

​Storms are named once they have the potential to cause medium (Amber) or high (Red) impacts to the UK, Ireland or the Netherlands with the effects of wind, rain and snow all being considered when deciding if a name should be used and this season things appear to have been relatively benign because it is mid-February and Antoni is yet to be used to name a storm.
 
This contrasts with last season when the first storm, Storm Arwen brought destructive winds rain and snow to the UK in late November.  It was named on 25 November 2021 and on 26 November 2021, the UK Met Office issued what they described as a "rare red weather warning" due to a deep pressure system moving southwards from the Atlantic Ocean. When the system made landfall in Aberdeenshire, it brought extreme wind and waves all the way down the coast from there to the Tees Estuary.
 
By the time the Storm Arwen had passed it had left more than a quarter of a million customers without electricity and three people dead. The damage it caused was compounded by sustained winds with gusts in excess of 90 mph that came unusually from the north-east and toppled around 16 million trees, the vast majority of which would have survived had the winds been from the prevailing south-west wind direction.
 
Storms Barra and Corrie followed in December and January and then, between 16 and 21 February 2022, the UK was successively hit by storms Dudley, Eunice, and Franklin. Of these, Eunice was the most severe with South Wales and the southwest of England being worst hit. On 17 and 18 February 2022, the Met Office issued to two rare red warnings for much of southern England, south Wales and London effectively telling about a third of the UK population to stay at home.
 
Eunice was one of the most powerful storms to impact the south coast of England since the Great Storm of 1987 and at its peak on 18 February, record gusts of 122 miles per hour were measured at the Needles on the Isle of Wight.  By the time Eunice had passed, 4 people had sadly died as a result of it, over a million homes were left without power, a huge hole had been torn into the roof of London’s O2 Arena, a church spire in Wells, Somerset had been blown down, hundreds of train services and flights were cancelled, and many major roads were closed. The estimated bill for all the damage and disruption caused was £360 million.
 
However, the Met Office said that things could have been a lot worse had it not been for the storm naming system ensuring that better messaging had been in place than that for the Great Storm of 1987. This meant that people had been more aware of Storm Eunice approaching, better prepared for it arriving and had heeded the warnings not to travel. This certainly shows that we should never underestimate the power of a name and simple messaging.

On 6th July 2021, I slipped on some wet rocks at Ardtoe, dislocating my knee and tearing my patellar tendon in two. Following an operation to repair the damage, I found myself immobilised and in a knee brace until early November and unable to get out and do any photography.
 
While laid up in the brace, I set myself the target of getting back out with the camera by the start of 2022 and the objective of taking 5 or 6 images each month that captured the varying landscape and moods of the Peninsula throughout the year.
 
With limited mobility, especially at the start of the year, I had to think carefully about locations I could safely go that would provide me with opportunities to take the photographs that I had in mind. This was a bit of a challenge at first, but I found that this limitation helped me with my creativity.
 
By the end of the year, I had visited enough locations and taken enough photographs to enable me to create a collection of 72 images, or six for each month to reasonably portray the Peninsula over the course of 2022. Twelve of these images, one for each month, are presented in this blog and I plan to share the rest of them over the course of the coming year in a new section on this website titled “A Year on the Peninsula”.
 
As well as the collection of images, the project provided me with the motivation to get “out there” and get back into my photography and aid my recovery. When pulling these images together, I was certainly reminded of how far I have come since that day in January when I gingerly made my way down the jetty at Salen with the help of a crutch to take the first photograph in this collection. I still have a number of months left in my 18-24 month long recovery period and hopefully, as my ability to walk on uneven ground and also downhill improves, I’ll be able to range further afield and photograph locations that I have not been able to get to since that fateful day in July 2021.

​Celebrations at this time of the year all started back in the Neolithic period, or New Stone Age, when Celtic Pagans celebrated the Winter Solstice. It falls on, or around the 21st of December each year and marks the shortest day of the year and the celebrations were held to appease the gods to allow the sun to return and have the days get longer, warmer and brighter.
 
About 3000 years later, in the late 700s AD, the Vikings began raiding Scotland, eventually beginning to settle here from the 8th century onwards. In doing so, they brought their own way of celebrating the Winter Solstice, which they referred to as Jól and became known as Yule. Their Yule celebrations would last for around 12 days, during which they would light bonfires, tell stories, drink ale and make sacrifices to the gods to earn blessing on the crops that would be grown when the warmer days returned.
 
As Christianity arrived, Yule gradually became the Christian celebration that we now refer to as Christmas and Yule celebrations were held in all parts of Scotland where the Catholic Church held authority. Then, in 1560, Scotland split from the Catholic Church and formed the Presbyterian Church of Scotland (the Kirk) in what was known as the Scottish Reformation. With this, came a change in religious thought, and any activity that could be seen as extravagant, or as celebrating superstitious ideals, was heavily frowned upon. This included the celebration of Yule and finally, after years of increasing discord, the Scottish Parliament passed a law in 1640 that made celebrating the ‘Yule vacations’ illegal.

​The ban remained in place until 1712, when it was officially repealed, but the powerful Kirk continued to frown upon any festive celebrations. In these times there was no public holiday on Christmas Day and punishments for singing Christmas carols, baking Yule bread and any other such things were extremely harsh. It was because of this that Hogmanay and New Year celebrations became so important in Scotland.
 
This situation continued for many years until a change in attitudes most likely caused by the commercialisation of Christmas, led to Christmas Day becoming a public holiday in 1958 and Boxing Day eventually becoming a public holiday in 1974. Some argue that this commercialisation was driven by the introduction of UK wide television broadcasting in the early 1950s and that that the pace of it increases year on year. It certainly does seem like we see Christmas decorations and sales promotions appearing earlier each year.
 
The way we celebrate Christmas has also changed. It has moved away from religiously oriented traditions that were deeply rooted in Christianity and Viking culture, becoming more of a secular event in recent years, where the focus seems to be less religious and more about spending time with friends and family.
 
However, whatever your views are on what Christmas should and shouldn’t be, the 25th of December 2022 will only be Scotland’s 65th Christmas holiday in 382 years, so I wish you all a Blythe Yule and hope that it brings happiness and joy to you and your family.

​The image above was captured from the upper slopes of Meall Mor, a small peak that sits on the western flank of Ben Resipole. I have been up there many times because it is only a short distance from my house and the modest climb is rewarded with stunning views westwards over Loch Sunart to the Isle of Carna and the hills of Morvern beyond.
 
While taking this photograph, I saw something that I hadn’t noticed before. A small promontory sitting in front of the silhouette of the Isle of Carna, which only caught my eye because it was lit up by rays of light that had broken through the clouds.
 
Curious as to what it was, I did a bit of research when I returned home to find out that this knoll was both the site of a small Iron Age fort called Dùn Ghallain (Fort of the Storm) and the setting of ‘The Swan of Salen’, a mythical tale that seeks to explain why no swans are found on Loch Sunart.
 
It tells of a Chieftain who fell in love with a maiden of low social status. The Chieftain’s mother disapproved of the match and turned the maiden into a swan. The Chieftain, not knowing this, killed the swan while out hunting and was heartbroken to see the swan’s body take the form of his love as it died. Inconsolable, he fell on his own sword, and the bodies of the two are said to lie beneath Dùn Ghallain to this day. It is said that this is why there are no swans on Loch Sunart, making it the perfect example of a tale to explain the unexplainable.
 
If you travel a few miles east from there, you can find a location whose name is linked to a legend that warns you away from danger. It is Lochan nan Dunaich, the ‘Little Loch of Sadness’, where young children were supposedly lured into its waters by a Kelpie and never seen again. 

​Kelpies are said to be water spirits that inhabit many of the rivers and lochs of Scotland. Although usually appearing in the form of a horse, they are capable of shape-shifting and can take human-form. When in horse form a kelpie will often stand near the edge of a river or loch waiting for its prey, which will often be young children. Kelpies have magically adhesive bodies, meaning that should a child choose to clap the supposed horse, they will become attached, allowing the Kelpie to drag its victim into the water and drown them.
 
It is also said that they can stretch the length of their backs to carry several children to their death at once. One tale involves a group of children, where all but one climbed onto the kelpie’s back while the last child stayed on the shore. This child petted the kelpie’s neck only to have their hand become attached to it. They freed themselves by cutting off the hand only to then watch their friends, who were stuck to the kelpie’s back, being dragged down into the depths of the water where they were devoured, and their entrails thrown to the water’s edge.
 
When you look at Lochan nan Dunaich, a deep and dark pool of water with fallen trees around its boggy edges, you can well understand the need to warn children away from straying too close to it and with such gruesome tales about Kelpies, you can well understand how the local legend would have been to this effect. So, if you find yourself there, tread carefully, very carefully indeed.