​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.”

​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.

​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. ​

​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.

​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.

​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.
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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. 

Alasdair Alpin MacGregor, in his book “The Peat Fire Flame” describes how it was related in the Islands that, when Christ was being pursued from one Hebridean Isle to another, he was hidden at low tide by two oystercatchers, who covered Him with seaweed, and kept watch over Him until His enemies had passed. And that it is supposed that for this act of grace, the oystercatcher was chosen to be the gille or manservant of Saint Bridget, Christ's foster-mother. Hence the origin of gille-hridean, the oystercatcher's Gaelic name.
 
An alternative story is that Saint Bride (Bridget) was running away from a band of evil men who were trying to kill her and, after being chased to a beach where there was no place to hide, she prayed to God to thank him for her life and lay on the sand to accept her death. However, before the men reached the beach, oystercatchers, who were patrolling the shoreline, saw her, recognised that she was in danger and covered her with seaweed, hiding her and saving her life. She blessed the species and since that day the oystercatcher has been the brìdean (Brìd-eun ‘Bride’s bird) or gille-brìde ‘servant of Bride’.
 
These two very similar stories may well be pure myth, but there is much written about the bird in the folklore of the West Highlands and Islands. Indeed, they say in the Hebrides that the oystercatcher was originally completely black, and that, in recognition of the two oystercatchers saving Christ from His enemies, it was awarded white plumage on its breast causing it to look like a white cross when it is seen flying towards you.
 
However, the oystercatcher’s most distinguishing feature must be its call and, more often than not, you will hear its shrill, insistent peep, peep, peep long before catch sight of any birds. In Gaelic the cry of the oystercatcher is " Bi glic, hi glic ; bi glic, bi glic! ", meaning ' be wise,' ' be prudent,' ' take care.' One story has it that Saint Bride followed this call across the sea from Ireland in her coracle to finally be guided to the shores of South Uist with an oystercatcher on each wrist. She is also said to have been able to call them to her hand and, in rough weather, send them out to sailors to guide them to safety. This may be why the cry of an oystercatcher was commonly regarded by West Highland mariners and fishermen as a warning of an approaching storm. 

​After hearing their call, you may well spot oystercatchers swooping low over the sea, making a dazzling flight pattern, before eventually landing on exposed sand and mud flats, where they feed on shore-dwelling bivalves such as mussels and limpets, along with other invertebrates like ragworms. I just love watching these gregarious and noisy birds as they quickly run up and down the tideline in an almost comical fashion. To watch this flurry of activity and boundless energy helps you understand why one of the collective nouns for the oystercatcher is a “stew”. The two others I’m aware of are “Rockefeller” and “parcel”, but they just don’t seem to fit the bill as well.

​In Celtic folklore, bluebells have a strong association with spirits and faeries. They are often called faerie flowers and their small bell-shaped flowers are believed summon the faeries when rung.  This is not necessarily a good thing because faeries are believed to hang their spells on the bluebells to dry and disturbing them may unleash wild magic upon you, leaving you dazed by enchantment and unable to find your way out of the woods. It can be even more serious for children who pick bluebells because it is believed that they could be snatched away by the faerie folk, never to be seen again.
 
So, if you do visit a bluebell wood, just remember to stay on the path and to not pick or disturb any of the flowers. Besides risking the wrath of the faeries, another good reason to avoid disturbing them is that they are poisonous, and this might be the reason why there are so many old tales and legends warning people away from them.
 
However, these beautiful little flowers have also been valued for their useful properties and have been used over the centuries by herbalists to prevent nightmares and to treat leprosy, spider bites and tuberculosis. They contain at least 15 biologically active compounds that provide them with protection against insect and animal pests and in recent years, some of these compounds have been investigated as possible treatments for HIV infection and cancer.
 
Bluebells have practical uses as well. They produce an exceptionally sticky sap which was used by our Bronze Age ancestors to make a glue that they use for attaching flights of feathers to their arrows. This glue has also been used for several centuries by bookbinders to make and repair books, while in Tudor times, starch was extracted from crushed bluebell roots and used to stiffen the ruff collars that were very much the fashion back then.
 
Finally, some bluebell folklore gives a positive impression of this beautiful little flower. For example, some believe that by wearing a wreath made of the flowers, the wearer can be compelled to speak only truth while others believe that if you can turn one of the flowers inside out without tearing it, you will eventually win the one you love.

​By the middle of the month most of the numerous wooded areas around the Peninsula are normally at or near their “autumn peak”, having swapped canopies of green for tapestries of vibrant reds, golds and ambers. The image above was taken around this time in 2019, which was a particularly good year for the autumn colours, and it shows the trees around the Old Shiel Bridge at Blain in their full autumn splendour.
 
The Old Bridge was built by Thomas Telford in 1804. It spans a narrow chasm through which the waters of the River Shiel pass and seem to come to the boil before they expand in the House Pool, slow down and then run both still and deep. This single span bridge provides an interesting subject that can be photographed from many different angles. This, combined with how the smooth waters of the House Pool and the river downstream of it reflect the autumn colours, make it the perfect place to capture the splendour of the trees at this time of the year.

​I’ve visited the bridge a few times over the last week or so to find that the arrival of the autumn colours is not quite as advanced as it normally is. Indeed, I can’t help feeling it is a week or two behind and although there are now hints of golds in the landscape, I find my myself wondering if their late arrival means that there will be a poorer show this year.
 
So, what makes for a good show of autumn colours? Well, the answer lies in the fact that leaf colour comes from pigments, which are natural substances produced by the leaf cells to help them obtain food. There are three pigments: chlorophyll (green), carotenes (yellow) and anthocyanins (reds and pinks). It is the mix of them, as influenced by the weather, that determines depth of colour we get each year:
 

• Cold nights: low temperatures destroy chlorophyll so the green leaf fades to yellow, but if temperatures stay above freezing, anthocyanin production is enhanced and the leaves take on a red colour.
• Dry weather: the sugars become concentrated in the leaves, more anthocyanin is produced and consequently the leaves are redder.
• Bright sunny days: photosynthesis can still occur on sunny autumn days, using the remaining chlorophyll. Sugar concentration increases, then more anthocyanin is produced and the leaves are redder.

 
In addition to this, a warm dry 'Indian summer' is needed so that the leaves work for longer and therefore stay full of these pigments until the reducing hours of daylight and lower night temperatures trigger the colour change. So, if we’re to have another great show of autumn colours this year, let’s hope for some settled weather over the next couple of weeks, followed by some cold nights and dry, bright sunny days.