This visit was on a particularly blustery day. Strong winds swept across the shore, and dark storm clouds rolled overhead, occasionally breaking apart to reveal fleeting bursts of sunlight. The changing light gave me ideal conditions to photograph not only the beach, but also the various static caravans that are set in the marram grass around the fringes of one of the sandy bays there.

Access is via a short walk from the road just beyond Grigadale on the way to Ardnamurchan Lighthouse. You leave the road, head through a metal gate and along a way-marked path that takes you across rough pasture and heath. After about 10 minutes, you come to the last of the way-maker posts and get your first glimpse of the bay and the static caravans around its edge.

Once down on the marram grass, it was the rounded shape of Sgùrr nam Meann that really caught my eye. This steep, rocky hill, covered in patches of dark vegetation, contrasted sharply with a single, pale caravan resting at its base in the vast, untamed landscape. It was a striking contrast that conjured up thoughts of the family holidays there, seeking stillness, seclusion, and peace.

There are four static caravans spaced well apart in this part of the bay, all nestled amongst the marram grass. Each caravan backs onto the rugged slopes of Sgùrr nam Meann, positioned so that their front windows face the wide expanse of sand and sea. Nestled amongst golden grasses, close to rocky outcrops and the sandy beach, the caravans – painted in subdued shades of white, cream and green – seem to be longing for the return of summer and the laughter of the families who bring them to life.

A closer look at some of the caravans reveals the effects of the weather – especially that of the tough winter weather that was coming to an end. Sitting on the western edge of the sea, the site is fully exposed to strong winter storms and the outer walls of the caravans, stained and weathered, clearly show the wear from constant exposure. There are also remnants of a summer passed, with a collection of kayaks, flipped over and loosely arranged, no doubt testament to many happy hours of family time out on the water.

As I continued exploring the caravans and the surrounding landscape, I was reminded of the site’s exposed, far-western position, when Ardnamurchan Lighthouse came into view, in the distance, perched on a rugged headland of dark, coarse-grained volcanic rock that jutting defiantly into what is often a wild and stormy sea.

Evidence that these remote caravans are beloved family retreats is easy to spot. A pristine tin shed, likely used to store outdoor tables and chairs, stands adjacent to one. A washing line – propped up by an old aluminium pole and strung between two weathered wooden posts – sways gently in the breeze. One caravan even had a wooden porch thoughtfully added to its side, no doubt providing shelter for those entering and leaving. Each conjured up the image of families enjoying joyful holiday moments in this beautiful, quiet setting.

Walking past the caravans, I headed toward the sea, gradually climbing a small rise covered in marram grass. As I ascended, Ardnamurchan Lighthouse came more clearly into view. As it did so, the sun broke through the clouds, casting a soft light over the jagged rocky headlands stretching into the sea before me. At that moment, everything felt so calm, although the blustery wind was a clear reminder of how untamed the weather can be here.

Next, I walked northwards along the beach, with my gaze often drifting towards the lighthouse. With each step, the perspective shifted, and the lighthouse gradually revealed more and more of itself.  Eventually, I reached a stretch of sand where the run-off from the peat-covered hills behind had left dark streaks in the golden sand. These black lines guided my eyes through the scattered rocks and on towards the distant lighthouse, standing tall at the end of Ardnamurchan Point.

On one part of the beach, the retreating tide had left behind intricate ripples etched into the sand. I paused there for a while, letting my gaze follow the lines of sand as they stretched out before me. Beyond them, jagged rocks jutted out from the shoreline, leading the way to the high headland at the north end of the bay. As the clouds parted, sunlight spilled through and lit the headland with a soft, golden glow. To the left, Bay MacNeil was visible, having been revealed by the receding tide.

Behind the caravans, nestled at the base of the hills that rise behind the bay, a swathe of common reed grass (Phragmites australis) flourishes. The reeds stand tall, their amber stems soaring over 5 feet high, crowned with clusters of feathery brown seed heads whose softness creates a striking contrast against the rugged hills behind. As the breeze danced through them, a soft rustling sound brought a real sense of peace and tranquillity.

This didn’t last long because the sky darkened, and ominous, swirling clouds began to gather, signalling the approach of another squall. Eager to avoid the worst of it, I found shelter beneath a rocky overhang, where I waited as the clouds swept in. With them, came a sharp drop in temperature and a brief but fierce snow shower. Once it had passed, I resumed my walk along the beach, retracing my outward footsteps in the sand. Footsteps outlined with delicate traces of snow.

As I finally left, I paused to gaze up at the rocky ridge stretching from the rounded summit of Sgùrr nam Meann. There, a group of red deer stood, silently observing me. They had likely been watching my every move as I explored the caravans, dunes, and beach. They are a common sight on my visits, sometimes even wandering along the beach itself. Today, however, they remained perched above, their keen eyes following me from the rocky heights, a quiet reminder of the wild beauty of my surroundings.

The classic shot of Sanna is the one taken from the top of the hill to its south, looking north over the over a deep blue sea to the Small Isles of Muck, Rùm and Eigg with the pristine white sand of the beach cradled between rocky outcrops and marram grass covered sand dunes. 

Standing atop this hill, gazing down at the breathtaking beach below, you may not fully grasp the dramatic landscape that surrounds it. It is only when viewed from above—soaring over the sea with a drone’s perspective—that its true setting is revealed. From this vantage point, the striking contrasts come into focus: the soft, rolling land where the crofting settlement of Sanna rests, the rugged cliffs that plunge into the waters south of the beach, and the towering hills behind, forming the remnants of a vast, long-extinct volcanic crater.

The volcanic past of the landscape is ever-present, revealed in the dark basalt outcrops that interrupt the smooth expanse of the white sand beach. The first signs appear as you step down from the dunes onto the beach itself, where a winding stream carves its path toward the sea, flowing past these striking remnants of eruptions that occurred millennia ago.

As you continue along the beach, you’ll come across the most striking of these basalt outflows, its full size unveiled as the tide retreats. When I visited at low tide, I was able to walk out to the largest of the outflows, Sgeir a’ Chàm Eilein. Once there, I paused for a while, listening to the rhythmic wash of waves against its jagged edges and watching the evening light cast a warm glow over its dark surface.

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As the sun inched closer to the horizon, its golden light deepened into rich tones, painting the sky in shades of burnt orange. Below, a stream wound its way through rugged mounds of dark basalt, its surface catching the glow of the sky. The water sparkled and shimmered as it flowed, mirroring the brilliance of the fiery colours above.

The transformation of colours continued and the rockpools nestled between the rugged basalt glowed with an almost otherworldly allure, shimmering like liquid bronze as a soft breeze sent ripples across their surface.

Turning away from the sea, the eye is drawn to the marram-covered sand dunes. Forming a sweeping arc, their intricate network of roots and grasses intertwined and holding the sand steadfast, resisting the fury of the past winter’s storms.

The once-eroded areas, now slowly healing, are starting to regain their former shape as grains of sand drift back into the intricate strands of roots that serve as the vital glue that binds this portion of the landscape together.

A long, rolling ridge rises from behind the dunes, its peaks and troughs stretching into the distance, with Meall Sanna standing as its highest point. Unlike the dark basalt found along the beach, this ridge is composed of pale-hued gabbro, a coarse-grained rock that took shape through the gradual cooling of magma deep within the Earth's crust.

While the beach, with its sweeping westward views toward the setting sun, may naturally draw your gaze, I always find it worthwhile to look east for a moment. There, the warm evening light casts a golden glow, highlighting every ridge, hollow, and undulation of the slopes that form a breathtaking, sculpted backdrop for the shore.

On an entirely different scale, the pristine white sand of the beach proves equally captivating. At sundown, mirroring the pale hues of the distant hills behind, it assumes a warm, enchanting glow as the interplay of light and shadow reveals the subtle textures etched by the receding tide.

Look close, however, and the seemingly “white” sand reveals itself as a shimmering tapestry of colours – pale grains interwoven with delicate shards of crumbling seashells, each fragment slowly weathering and breaking down on its long journey to becoming the white sand that first catches the eye. Truly sands of time.

Being on the beach at sundown is inherently tranquil, almost otherworldly. The ceaseless murmur of waves breaking and gently lapping ashore is never far away and listening to that soothing rhythm while watching the last light of the day shimmer on the sea's surface can be profoundly restorative.

And while the gentle sound of the sea brings relaxation, it is further enriched by a cascade of colours that greets the eye. The pale blue of the water darkens, interwoven with oranges and golds as the sunset forms, before surrendering completely to a golden glow that paints both the sea and sand. A perfect end to a day.

Taking time to explore the beach’s outer reaches proves immensely rewarding. At its northern tip, Ardnamurchan Lighthouse can be seen standing proudly atop a rugged outcrop jutting into the sea, while the enduring peaks of the Rùm Cuillin remain a steadfast presence when looking back from the southern end of the beach. Turn eastward and the modest rooftops of Sanna’s houses gently tease the eye, emerging just above the swaying marram grass.

A walk into the dunes unveils a scattering of modest, white-painted houses that comprise the settlement of Sanna, each exuding the timeless charm of Scottish Highland architecture—a subtle testament to human presence in this rugged landscape. As you venture further, a lone static caravan emerges from the dunes, no doubt having provided a family with countless cherished memories.

At the southern end of the beach, you can find the Sanna Bheag which was once home to the writer and photographer M. E. M. Donaldson. In 1947, all but the walls of the building were destroyed by a fire and the flat roofed building that can now be seen is the resulting of a rebuild in 1967. 

Sanna Bheag certainly makes an incongruous sight, with its flat roofed, modern form being in complete contrast to the traditional Highland croft houses nearby. These classic dwellings, with their whitewashed walls and slate roofs, sit harmoniously beneath the rugged slopes of Meall Sanna, while Sanna Bheag’s bold, angular form feels almost out of place in a landscape shaped by time and tradition.

Further along, towards Sanna Bheag, stands a more intact stone byre, partially concealed by the slope below. Its weathered, rusting corrugated iron roof, though aged and fractured, still offers some protection as it nestles behind a knoll. Tucked within a gully beneath Meall Sanna, the byre’s secluded position enhances its picturesque charm, blending historic charm with the dramatic and rugged landscape.

The sea, ever present, is never far from sight. From the slope just above the byre, the westward view serves as a constant reminder of its closeness. Late in the afternoon, I found myself there, as a beautifully soft light accentuated the rolling contours of the land stretching down toward the water. I paused for a moment, reflecting on those who once worked on this land, a land that would have undoubtedly shaped their lives.

The byre is a charming yet timeworn structure, drawing me in to examine the intricate details of its weathered state. Its roof, a patchwork of rusted metal and gaping holes, is held in place by moss-covered boulders balanced on the edges. Time and decay have eaten away at sections of the corrugated iron, leaving me wondering how much longer it can withstand the elements. The wooden door, its glass long shattered, stands tiredly, seemingly surrendering to nature’s slow, relentless erosion. How much longer, I wonder, before only the byre's sturdy stone walls remain, just like the silent ruins standing nearby?

The byre is a charming yet timeworn structure, drawing me in to examine the intricate details of its weathered state. Its roof, a patchwork of rusted metal and gaping holes, is held in place by moss-covered boulders balanced on the edges. Time and decay have eaten away at sections of the corrugated iron, leaving me wondering how much longer it can withstand the elements. The wooden door, its glass long shattered, stands tiredly, seemingly surrendering to nature’s slow, relentless erosion. How much longer, I wonder, before only the byre's sturdy stone walls remain, just like the silent ruins standing nearby?

Elements of decay can also be found scattered in the ground around the byre. Rusting strands of barbed wire embedded in ageing stone walls and rotting fence posts. Fragments of corrugated iron gradually being covered by creeping grass. All adding to the sense that time is gradually reclaiming this charming yet timeworn structure.

After finishing my exploration of the byre, I noticed the day was drawing to a close. Eager to capture the sunset, I made my way down to the beach. A bank of clouds loomed on the western horizon, but I was hopeful that gaps would form, allowing the fading sunlight to paint the sky with colour. Fortunately, as the sun dipped lower, warm hues broke through the clouds, illuminating the scene. Pausing for a while, I appreciated the view before pressing the shutter button, taking a final photograph of the waves gently washing over the sand and rocks set against the glowing tones of the sunset sky. A fitting end to my exploration of Sanna.

​My photographic month started on a calm evening when promising signs of a sunset encouraged me to take the drive from Resipole over to Kinlochmoidart to see if I could capture an image that I had long had in my head. It was one that I hoped would show Loch Moidart from a different perspective. A perspective that places the viewer facing westwards out of Loch Moidart with Eilean an Fheidh as the main subject, but also including Riska Island and Eilean Tioram with its eponymous Castle.
 
On arrival, the conditions were perfect. High tide had coincided with sunset and with no wind, the potentially muddy Loch Moidart was filled with completely still, sky-blue water within which Eilean an Fheidh and its associated skerries were nestled. As the sun dipped below the horizon, there was just the right amount of cloud above the western horizon to catch the pink, red, orange and yellow hues that were finding their way up into the sky. These colours bounced off the clouds and down onto the blue tinged mirror-like water that surrounded the islands.
 
Two different images were created.
 
The first was a single frame whose width I filled with Eilean an Fheidh and Riska Island, positioning the drone such that the distant Eilean Tioram and Castle Tioram could be seen beyond and separated from the vertical face of Sgriobaid Dubh on the mainland. 

​The second was a 6-frame stitched panorama that gives a wider composition that also included the mass of Beinn Bhreac to the south of Eilean an Fheidh and the side of Shona Beag to its north. It was also wide enough to capture the Small Isles of Eigg and Rùm silhouetted against the orange glow from the sun in a gap beyond the northern side of Eilean Shona.

​A few days later, I awoke to a thin veil of mist over Loch Sunart and as I watched the colours intensify as the sun rose, I decided to go in search of mist over at Loch Shiel which, from experience, holds far more mist than Loch Sunart ever does.

​However, on reaching Acharacle, I found that Loch Shiel was almost clear of mist, except for a thin veil that I could see beneath the distant hills of Ardgour. The mountains were silhouetted against a sky that had been turned a deep, rich orange by the rising sun. After pausing for a moment to consider what to do, I decided to move on towards Dorlin and Castle Tioram with the hope of finding the mist I was looking for.

​Thankfully, the short drive to Dorlin paid dividends and took me to a landscape that was shrouded in mist. Looking southwards back to where the River Shiel meets the sea at Shielfoot, patches of mist drifted across the river and the low-lying ground to the west of it, while in the opposite direction, Loch Moidart was covered in a thick blanket of mist that obscured Castle Tioram from view.

​However, as the sun continued to rise, the mist covering Loch Moidart began to clear and Castle Tioram emerged from its soft white blanket while wisps of mist lingered over the island upon which it sits. The effect of this was to create a beautiful and mystical scene that was best captured from the air.

​The mist continued to clear and eventually Castle Tioram became visible from ground level, so I made my way along the shore towards it, eventually reaching a spot from where I could place it in the centre of the frame and capture both it and its reflection in perfect symmetry. The mist came and went, so I stood a while before pressing the shutter button at a moment when the castle was completely clear of the mist and the slightest of warm morning light was falling on its east facing walls. A satisfying end to a great few hours chasing Moidart’s mist.

With the promise of some clear skies at night, I returned to Dorlin later that day for some astro-landscape photography. When I arrived, a bank of cloud was gradually moving north-westwards, leaving a clear sky behind it. Forever the optimist, I was hopeful that it was only matter of time before I would find myself under a clear, star filled sky. Before that though, I took time to capture some iPhone shots of the spectacular sunset that was enveloping Loch Moidart, watching its golden hues intensify before fading to blue and pink as the sun went down.

​Continuing to make my way along the estate road that skirts the edge of Loch Moidart I arrived at the subject for the image I had in my mind. It was a boat house that I’ve passed countless times while walking the dog and one which I thought would sit directly beneath the cloudy core of the Milky Way in the hour or so after dark during August and September. The timing was ideal because it was only a few days after a new moon. This meant two things. Firstly, there would be no moonlight to drown out the Milky Way, making it clearly visible to the naked eye and more importantly, the camera. Secondly, there was a high spring tide at about an hour after sunset, bringing the sea level up to cover much of the foreshore in front of the boathouse and simplify the composition. 

​Whilst it was still light, I experimented with various compositions and, by using a compass to determine where the Milky Way would be when it was dark enough to photograph it, I settled on a composition that used the cobbled surface of the sea wall as the leading line to the boat house which I positioned in the bottom left of the frame at an angle that would see the Milky Way above it. By this time, it was about an hour after sunset and with the camera now fixed in position, I had about an hour to wait until it would be dark enough to photograph the Milky Way.
 
It may seem to some as being a bit of a long wait, but this is the time I enjoy most about astro-landscape photography. With the camera set up and fixed in position you are free to simply enjoy the moment, to watch the stars appear one by one and to pick out the constellations as they gradually reveal themselves. It is in this moment that my thoughts often turn to consider how insignificant we are in the grand scheme of things. Consider this – our galaxy, the Milky Way, may contain 300 million potentially habitable planets and there are a total of 170 billion other galaxies in the Universe as a whole. With mind-blowing numbers like these, there surely must be the possibility of there being life beyond Earth.

​As the hour passes, I usually take test shots at regular intervals to check the light levels until I’m satisfied that it is dark enough for the camera to distinguish the Milky Way from its star filled backdrop and then, with one press of the shutter button I take my final shot, pack up and walk away satisfied that I’ve captured the image that I had in my mind’s eye.

​The start of the month was particularly cold wet and grey, making it challenging for me to motivate myself to get out with the camera. However, my cocker spaniel Fergus needs walked whatever the weather and, more often than not, I take a camera with us when we head out on our daily wander. One walk took us to Sailen nan Cuileag, a bay to the east of Salen on Loch Sunart and while Fergus and his nose explored the shoreline, I sat on a rock, watched yachts leaving their overnight mooring in Salen Bay and took a few photographs of them as they were carried down the Loch by a light north westerly breeze.

As the days passed, the cold, grey and dull conditions persisted, so my outings continued to be limited to when Fergus and I were out on walks. One day, when we were at Kentra Bay at low tide, making the most of running about the vast sands (Fergus, not me!!) that appear when the bay empties, I spotted a lone sea urchin shell sitting amongst the sea pinks that cover the salt marsh there in June. I didn’t have my camera with me, so I made a mental note of the location and decided to come back in the evening to photograph it because the forecast was for the cloud to clear a little. 

However, when returned that evening, the clouds remained and the light that I was hoping for was not there. Nevertheless, I took a few shots of the sea urchin shell, some close up and some of the wider view before eventually deciding that my favoured composition was of it sitting amongst the sea pinks in the foreground with Ben Resipole under an imposing, cloud filled sky as a backdrop.

The drive home from there takes me through Acharacle and past a tin shed that sits at the end of a croft field. It is something that I have driven by countless times, but on this occasion, a thick blanket of bright yellow buttercups that covered the field caught my eye and drew my attention to the contrasting colours of the tin shed. The sight of this beautifully colourful scene was most welcome on such a dull grey evening, so I turned the van around, found somewhere to park and took a few photographs of it.
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As the month progressed, one thing that has struck me this year was the number of foxgloves that were appearing. Their tall purple spires of bell shape flowers seemingly rising above every dense blanket of bracken that I have come across. Their size and colour make them visually striking plants and provide ideal subjects with which to anchor your composition and I used them for to this effect at Castle Tioram and Camas nan Geall.
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​My final photography outing of the month took me to Samalaman Bay near Glenuig on an evening when the sun eventually made an appearance. To make the most of this, I decided to spend a few hours there to watch the tide go out and the sun go down.
 
When I arrived, the sun was still reasonably high in the sky, so I focussed my attention on an upturned row boat that seems to have taken up a long term residence amongst the water lilies there. I started with wider shots of the boat and the bay with the jagged peaks of the Isle of Rùm in the distance before turning my attention to some close-up shots of the boat and the lilies.

Worryingly, cloud began to roll in from the east as sunset approached but I remained hopeful that there would be a sufficient gap between the clouds and the western horizon to allow the sun to cast some light on the landscape. I wasn’t disappointed because eventually the sun dipped below the clouds and bathed the sands that had been uncovered by the falling tide with a beautifully warm and golden light. 

I photographed the bay and the sands until the sun dropped behind the Small Isles of Eigg and Rùm before taking a final shot of these islands silhouetted against an intensely orange coloured sky. I left Samalaman Bay satisfied with what I had captured and with the thought that this must be one of the best places on the Peninsula to experience a midsummer sunset. 

​On the way home the following morning, I stopped off at Ardmolich at the head of Loch Moidart to photograph a vast swathe of cottongrass that had caught my eye on the drive out to Glenuig. This plant is actually not a grass, but a sedge and it thrives in acidic, waterlogged soil such as that found there. It’s distinctive white, fluffy seed heads covered the ground, providing me with plenty of photographic opportunities and a productive stop with which to end my last photo trip of the month.

​My first outing took me to Phemie’s Walk near Strontian and to my favourite place in the woods there. It is a place well off the path where a stand of magnificent birch trees creates an almost cathedral like space and on the morning I was there, their leaves were backlit to create an incredibly iridescent canopy that covered the space around me and tinged the trunks and branches of the trees with a beautiful green hue.

​A couple of weeks later and the leaves on the ancient oak trees that cover the hillside around my house at Resipole had well and truly made their spring entrance as well. This, along with the greening up of the previously dry and russet scrubland, had turned this part of Sunart into a verdant oasis and provide me an opportunity to use the drone to capture the ‘spring green’ from a different perspective.

​One of the things that always fascinates me, when I’m flying the drone above the oakwoods with the camera facing downwards, is how distinct each of the trees can be. When you’re on the ground looking up through the tree canopy it seems to blanket the entire sky, yet looking down, reveals gaps and lines where the trees seem almost afraid to touch each other. This is a phenomenon called ‘crown shyness’ which is thought to be caused by the trees detecting a frequency of visible light called far-red light, which can tell them how close they are to their neighbours. When they sense they are close, they stop growing and thereby maintain their exposure to light and optimise the process of photosynthesis.

​I had a second outing with the drone in the hope of capturing more soft evening light on the trees, but this time around the bay that is Sàilean nan Cuileag, a mile or so east of Salen. However, despite the conditions looking hopeful, cloud rolled in from the northeast meaning that I had to content myself with a couple of shots of the bay that were more subdued that I had envisaged. 

​Both images show the bay at high tide, filled with seawater and therefore at its most attractive for ariel photography. The first is looking out of the bay, southwest down Loch Sunart, while the second is looking northeast into the bay and back towards Ben Resipole and is perhaps my favourite image from the month, probably because I feel it captures so much of a place I’m lucky to be able to call home.

Glendrian sits on the low land within the circle of hills that form the crater of the long extinct volcano that you drive through on your way to the beach at Sanna. It is about 2 kilometre walk from where you park and the first part of the walk takes you up a short uphill section at the start of an estate track that leads all the way to the settlement.  At the top of this short climb, you pass through a kissing gate and from there, the view opens up to the east and you catch your first glimpse of some of the houses sitting beneath the hulking black rocks that form the ring dyke of the volcano. 

These houses are part of a settlement that is made up various structures, from small round cornered buildings with only one or two windows, through to more substantial gabled buildings with chimney pots and harled exteriors. They are scattered across a large area running roughly south to north along the eastern edge of the ring dyke and, as you wander around them, you often catch glimpses of the sea, which is about another 2 kilometres beyond the settlement.

As you get close to the first of the houses, you cross the Allt Nead an Fhìr-eòin, a small river which I assume was the main source of water for those who once lived there. It is such a quiet spot and I found myself sitting there for a while watching the sunlight dance across the rocks beneath the rippling water.

The first group of houses, located at the southern end of the settlement, are the most modest and appear to be the oldest. Some sit on their own, isolated in the landscape, while others are built into the hillside and have what look like small byres attached to them. 

They are also the most ruinous of the buildings, which perhaps suggests that they were the first to be abandoned. Research suggests that this may have happened in the late 19th century when the smaller crofts at Glendrian were gradually merged together to form larger tenancies, resulting in the number of households dropping from ten at the time of the 1861 census to three at the time of the 1901 census.

Unlike many of the old crofting settlements in the Scottish Highlands, Glendrian was not subjected to the brutality of the mass evictions of the “Clearances”. Instead, its population was gradually decreased by changes in land management practices, but despite this, it was incredibly poignant to sit on the hillside and watch sheep graze in a place where people once lived. A place that they once called home.

By the late 1930s, only two families remained. One of these families was the Hendersons, who occupied a terraced group of buildings that can be found mid-way along the settlement, high up on a piece of relatively flat ground at the base of the ring-dyke of the volcano rises upwards behind it. The buildings are more intact than those to the south, with the apexes of the gable ends of the croft house still standing and harling still visible on some of its external walls. Its last occupants, Donald and Mary Henderson, moved to Kilchoan shortly after their son Angus was born in 1940.

Below the Hendersons, lived the MacLachlans, who occupied what is the most significant building remaining in the settlement, a two-storey house which was built around 1871. Although basic by today’s standards, it was far better appointed than the other buildings in the settlement with its chimney stacks at each end serving three fireplaces. Two at one end, ground and upper floor, to provide heat and one on the ground floor at the other end for cooking.

This “new house” was first occupied by Allan MacLachlan shortly after it was built, and its last occupants were John MacLachlan and his wife. John died in 1941 and his now widow moved to Achnaha to stay with her nephew, leaving Glendrian abandoned to this day.

The house resisted the elements for a good number of years with its roof finally coming down during a storm in 1994 and one visitor reported that the upper floor remained in place until as late as 2009. Just over a decade later, there is not much left of anything that isn’t stone, with the doors, windows, floors and roof now long gone. All that remains are some fragments of the corrugated tin roof and some pieces of timber supports, all of which now lie on the ground on the eastern side of the house after presumably being blown there by the winds of that fateful 1994 storm.

After photographing in and around the house, I explored the outbuildings that were attached to it, ending my visit by surveying the expansive view of the volcanic caldera from the elevated position that a once thriving community had occupied. While doing so, I began pondering on how the ruins of nearly twenty buildings remained following the 80 years over which the settlement was gradually abandoned and the just over 80 years since the last occupant left. While doing so, I couldn’t begin to imagine the mixture of emotions that the last occupant might have felt as they closed the door on their home for the last time.

My first visit to Fascadale was on an afternoon at the start of the month when a high tide brought the sea well up onto the rocks around the sides of the bay. It was a dreich day and shower after shower of fine rain was blowing in from the hills that were to my back while I stood at the edge of the beach and watched the waves wash over a mixture of rounded stones and jagged boulders that made up the foreshore.

I stood there for a while, taking in the scene before me and listening to the sound of the sea washing over the boulders before deciding that the conditions were best suited to some long exposure photography. So, I headed down to the water’s edge, set up my tripod and took a few shots of the western side of the bay before pointing my camera downwards to focus on the water that was washing around my feet and the boulders I was standing on.

Satisfied with the shots I had taken, I packed up my tripod and filters, put my rucksack on my back and made my way up a steep bank of rounded boulders and away from the sea. Having kept my camera to hand, I took one final photograph of the bay, shooting low and wide to capture some boulders whose colours had been made vibrant by the rain that had soaked both them and me.

I returned to Fascadale Bay about a week later, but this time my visit coincided with low tide, rather than high tide. So instead of the sea washing over the boulders that it had been on my previous visit, it was gently lapping on light coloured sand that had been exposed by the receding tide.  I walked along the edge of the sand next to the boulders, along to the eastern side of the bay and stood for a moment. Looking northwards out to sea, I could see the Isle of Eigg on the distant horizon and decided to take a photograph of it, using the rocks to the right to lead the eye out towards it.

Before making my way down to the waterline, I turned my attention to the pink tinged rocks that were behind me and took a series of images of where they met the sand. When you first look at these rocks, they seem to be well rounded and smooth, but a closer inspection reveals a surface that has been made rough by the plethora of small limpets that covers them.

Having finished photographing the rocks, I turned back to face the sea to be met with the distant view of the Skye Cuillin. It was backlit by a warm orange glow and such an enchanting sight that was well worth capturing.

I eventually made my way down towards the sea with the intention of photographing the beautiful shapes that the peat and rock grains from the surrounding landscape had formed on their journey across the sand. However, I caught sight of a patch of kelp that had been uncovered by an exceptionally low spring tide and decided to spend some time photographing that instead. I wasn’t disappointed because both the colours and shapes were exquisite. It was as if leaves of gold had been placed in the water.

Finally, after photographing the kelp, I turned my attention to the ribbons and strands of peat and rock granules that had created intricate shapes that contrasted against the light-coloured sand. My first find was stone that looked as if it was the seed from which fine fronds of a plant had germinated. It’s amazing that dark granules of sediment being deposited by water flowing past the stone could create such a shape.

I continued to explore the beach, finding shapes that were reminiscent of small trees, shapes that were angular and geometric and then numerous light-coloured ridges interspersed with the troughs of dark sedimentary material.

Before leaving the beach, I took one final photograph to capture a particular patch of sand that was covered in numerous veins of dark sediment that had been left behind by the falling tide. It was such an exquisite sight, and one that I felt compelled to capture, thus making it a fitting end to my time spent photographing what is an extremely small but feature filled part of Ardnamurchan’s northern coastline.

​February, the last month of meteorological winter, proved to be less stormy than January but what it lacked in wind was certainly made up in rain. Looking at my weather station, it was the second wettest February I’ve experienced since moving to the Peninsula in 2016, with almost 200mm of rain in the month, and over half of that falling in the first week. The sheer volume of rain falling onto already saturated ground over such a short period of time meant that both the River Shiel and Loch Shiel were as high as I’ve ever seen them.
 
I was keen to record this, so I headed up to the bridge that crosses the River Shiel just to the north-west of Acharacle to see what I could photograph. On the morning I was there, the rain had eventually stopped and the rising sun occasionally shone through the breaks in the cloud that were beginning to appear. This first image I took were of the bridge silhouetted against the warm morning light and I then turned my attention to picking out some of the trees downstream of it, that were sitting submerged in a few feet of water.

​A couple of mornings later, I returned to Acharacle, but rather than photographing the bridge again, I decided to focus on Loch Shiel and the submerged fences that were in the flooded fields close to the Shielbridge Hall in the centre of the village. I was there just before sunrise, hoping for some colour to appear in the sky but high-level cloud cover prevented this and instead the landscape was bathed in some beautifully subtle, soft and warm light. This was perfect for the shots I ended up taking.

​Upon finishing exploring the submerged fence posts, my attention turned to the various patches of ice that had formed along the water’s edge as a result of overnight sub-zero temperatures. Indeed, I was very appreciative of my liner gloves and woollen mitts, packed with charcoal hand warmers, which were keeping my fingers warm while the mercury still hovered around the -2°C mark. There were some fascinating wafers of ice suspended above the surface of the loch by tussocks of grass, presumably left because the water level in the loch was falling now that the rain had stopped for a couple of days.

​As well as these suspended wafers of ice, the curving water's edge near the Shielbridge Hall played host to a myriad of intricately frosted blades of grass that formed the boundary between the frozen field and the frozen loch. They were a joy to photograph.

​The middle of the month was dominated by misty, grey days which are best described as being “smirry”. You see, “smirr” is an Old Scots word for a delicate form of rain or a misty drizzle that lingers in the air and that’s certainly what we had. On days like that, woodlands are a good place to go for taking photos, so I decided to take my camera on a wander around the 4km loop at Ariundle Oakwood which takes you up the side of the Strontian River and back down through the ancient oaks that can be found there. 

​Despite the greyness of the day, there was still some colour to be found as my eye was drawn to the contrasts between the orange hues of the winter undergrowth, the purple tinge of the bare branches of stands of silver birch trees and the silvery grey of the lichen covered branches off the gnarly oak trees.

​However, as always, the thing that catches my eye most when I take a walk through the oakwoods is the combination of thick and twisted oak tree trunks and branches surrounded by large and rounded moss covered boulders. There’s something quite enchanting about this sight and I think that it is little wonder that folklore has it that the boulders are home to faeries that live in the woods.

My next outing with the camera took me to Sàilean nan Cuileag, a small bay on Loch Sunart, just to the east of Salen. It’s not far from my house, so it is a place I often take the dog for a walk and on the countless times I’ve been there I’ve crossed a small stream that cuts across the path on the way down to the bay. I’ve never paid much attention to it but on this occasion, I stopped and spent some time taking some close-up shots of the water flowing over the red tinged stones that can be found in the streambed. I had never noticed them before, so the experience reminded me of what you can see if you take the time to slow down and really look at something.

After photographing the streambed, I continued my walk down to the bay with the intention of photographing the stream as it flowed into the sea at high tide. I took a few shots of the scene I had in my mind, but the dullness of the evening meant that I didn’t get anything I was happy with. Instead, I turned my attention to taking some close-up shots of the trees that fringe the bay. They comprise a mixture of larch and oak, whose bare branches were covered with silvery grey lichen just like those I photographed at Ariundle Oakwood a week or so earlier.

​From all of the images above, you will see that February has been quite a grey and colourless month, but thankfully as both the end of the month and the end of meteorological winter approached, the weather began to improve and we were treated to a couple of colourful sunsets. During one of these, I was looking eastwards, out of the kitchen window, just as beautifully warm light fell on a snow capped Fuar Bheinn, a 2514-foot-high Corbett that is one of a horseshoe of peaks that circles Glen Galmadale over on Kingairloch Estate.

​It was such a beautiful sight, so I just had to grab my camera, rush outdoors and capture the scene before the light disappeared as the sun dipped below the hills behind and to the west of me. After this, I stayed by the loch side for a while and watched the colours of the loch, sky and landscape change as the sun set and took the following image which shows the view looking westwards down Loch Sunart from Resipole. This rich orange glow of a late winter sunset was a perfect and spectacular end to a month, which for the most part, had been a dull and grey one.