My Ever-changing View

Early January brought a mix of colourful winter sunrises and sunsets, light battling with clouds, herons and otters, and snow-covered hills to the landscape around my home here at Resipole on the northern shore of Loch Sunart. So, in the month just passed, my photographic explorations did not involve any travel but instead had me taking advantage of a wealth of photographic opportunities that were right on my doorstep. It was an extremely rewarding experience that had me truly connecting with my everchanging view. It is a view I never tire of, but it can go unnoticed in the routine of daily life here on the Peninsula, so I’m thankful for this time spent connecting with it.

​The first week in January brought a series of sunrises and sunsets to Loch Sunart that were so intense that they had the ability to stop you in your tracks. These awe-inspiring events tend to begin with the slightest tinge of red and pink appearing in the clouds overhead. However, when there is a cloud gap on the horizon, light can make its way upwards to paint the sky overhead with a richness of pinks, reds and golds. One morning, when the loch was flat and calm, that telltale tinge was in the sky overhead and light was finding its way through the cloud on the horizon. With much anticipation, I wandered down to the rocky foreshore with my camera, stood there and watched the colours build and build until suddenly, the sky seemed to ignite and scatter its colours over the surface of the Loch. I absorbed the scene for a moment, raised the camera to my eye and pressed the shutter button.

​Capturing these fiery skies, be it at sunrise or sunset, certainly requires a great deal of anticipation. Although they build slowly, that peak of intense light and colour that captivates the senses appears suddenly and then disappears almost as quickly. Therefore, the key is to recognise the initial signs, watch patiently as the colours build and be ready to capture that brief moment when the sky is set on fire by those intense pinks, reds and golds.

​Thin cloud cover and passing rain showers are also something I look for at sunrise and sunset because they can interact with the light from a low sun to create some wonderful golden colours. While these conditions may not create the intensity of those fiery sunrises and sunsets, they do lead to a subtle mix of tones with a longer-lasting beauty. Gone is that fleeting burst of colour and in its place is a golden veil that can last an hour or so and not just a few minutes.

​I find that this relative longevity allows for a different kind of photographic experience, one that doesn't demand haste. One that doesn’t come with the pressure of missing the moment. Instead, it invites me to slow down, watch and absorb the subtle changes in the water and the sky. It allows me to savour the entire scene before calling me to explore and capture some of the detail within, be that the shimmering of ripples on the water, or the interplay of light, water and land.

This is the photographic experience I prefer. One that creates a meditative atmosphere, and one that brings me inner peace and calm. I can very easily get lost in the moment, completely immersed in my surroundings, sitting by the still waters of the loch, mesmerised by light dancing on its surface and watching seaweed drift gently by.

​On a morning when this “golden hour” was coming to an end and the light levels were increasing, silhouetted rocks began to emerge from the shadows to reveal the details on their surface and the soft, golden colours that were cast over the loch gradually gave way to the blue hues of oncoming daylight. It was a delightful transition, with layers of sunrise-gold and sky-blue blending seamlessly together on the surface of the loch.

​January not only means glorious sunrises and sunsets here at Resipole, but also an increase in wildlife activity in the sea in front of the house. A regular morning visitor is a heron that I often see standing still with its keen eyes fixed on the water, looking for the first signs of movement to reveal the presence of fish. It can stand there for an age, just as it did one morning when silhouetted against the surface of the loch, waiting patiently for its prey while the subtle hues of gold and silver shimmered in the water behind it.

​An otter was another regular visitor to the loch shore, spending an hour or two on an almost daily basis hunting for prey amongst the rocks and ribbons of seaweed that emerged during the mid-tide. It was particularly active on a few cold and clear days when the mid-tide happened to coincide with sundown. This coming together of tide and sunset created a softly lit and warm backdrop against which I photographed this beautiful creature as it hunted in the water, occasionally coming ashore to preen itself or feast on captured prey. As always, it was a privilege to spend time in its company, time that came to an end as darkness fell, and the otter retreated into the oakwoods that line the loch shore.

​As beautiful as sunrises and sunsets are and as beguiling as the wildlife is, it is the first light of the day breaking through clouds and mist and falling on the hillsides that perhaps draws my eye the most. This is especially the case on mid-winter mornings when the Isle of Carna, at the western extremity of my view, is always the first to catch the light. There is an undeniable enchantment in watching a warm glow fall firstly on the peak of Cruachan Chàrna, the island’s highest hill, and then slowly creep down its east-facing slope as the sun rises above the hills of Morvern to its east.

​When looking the other way, it was the sight of the warm light illuminating Ben Resipole that greeted me. First to be lit, was this Corbett’s pyramid shaped peak. A golden glow warmed the rugged surface of its rocky, snow-covered south face while cloud gradually cleared from its top. Mist swirling beneath the peak gradually gave way and allowed patches of light to highlight sections of the mountain’s lower slopes. As the sun continued to rise above the hills on the southern side of the Loch, it began to light the tops of Morvern’s higher peaks, with Monadh Rahuaidh, one of the higher hills just to the south of the Isle of Carna, being one of the first of them to feel the warmth of the sun.

​As the month progressed, thick clouds dominated the weather and hung low in the sky. They seemed to hug the tops of hills on the south side of Loch Sunart for days and I began to think that the photographic opportunities had come to an end. However, one morning a band of light broke through them and mixed pale orange hues with the surrounding grey. This unexpected burst of colour against the otherwise monochrome landscape felt like a gift from nature, serving as a reminder of the beauty that can emerge even on the most overcast of days.

​As the morning progressed, the sun continued its battle with the cloud and more gaps appeared to reveal the once hidden hilltops. Minute by minute, the hills emerged from the gloom and slivers of light cascaded downwards, breathing life into the landscape and transforming it into a canvas of contrasts from which I picked out details with a long telephoto lens.

​The following morning, I woke to a clear sky and as darkness retreated and twilight emerged, a delicate band of pink, known as the “Belt of Venus” began to appear out in the west. This atmospheric phenomenon is what is known as an anti-twilight arch, forming just above the horizon, opposite the rising or setting sun. There is an ethereal beauty to the gradient of colour that it creates, so it is little wonder that its name is derived from the Roman goddess of love and beauty. Capturing the sight of it with my drone flying above the icy blue waters of Loch Sunart seemed a fitting way to end my photographic exploration of the ever-changing view I’ve lived with for the past nine years. It is a view that continues to reveal a bit more of itself to me with each passing day and long may this continue.