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

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

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

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

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

​To 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 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.

​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.

What’s in a Name?

​If you take a walk through Ariundle Oakwood, you’ll see a woodland floor covered with hundreds of moss-covered boulders which, with a little bit of imagination, could be mistaken for mounds that are home to the mythological sídhe, a supernatural race comparable to the faeries or elves. Indeed, the nearby village of Strontian got its name because of the faeries. In Scottish Gaelic, it is called Sròn an t-Sìthein, which translates as the ‘nose of the fairy hill’ and means a knoll or low round hill inhabited by the sídhe. ​