It was almost a year to the day since buying my large format camera that I went to Scotland. A year of wanting to learn how to use it, a year of just getting to grips with the basics and then leaving it too long before getting it out again, a year of forgetting and frustration. So much so that by the time Christmas came round again I had only taken about six images all year with it and I was desperate to get back outside again. But the thought of not being able to focus, of tilt and shift, rise and fall, circle of confusion, of my head full of confusion, of the fact that I didn’t have one of those little circular cards so how did I know if I was taking a picture too close and needed to compensate, and how did you compensate anyway? It was all getting too much. To be honest, I was thinking that buying this camera was a bad idea and I was beginning to feel sick to my stomach that I had sold my much loved and faithful Hasselblad because I was seduced by the promise of greater riches. If only I still had my Hasselblad, I could go out and photograph without filling my head with all these complications. I could just compose, meter and shoot. That’s what I used to enjoy doing, and I could do that on autopilot so I didn’t even need to think about my camera. Suddenly all that seemed to be turned on its head so that I spent my whole time thinking about my camera and not actually enjoying or connecting with the landscape in front of me.

So it was with a little bit of trepidation that I set off to Scotland. But the weather was forecast to be fantastic. Cold, and partly sunny. My favourite winter photography weather. And I wasn’t disappointed. We arrived at our hotel with our breath freezing from our mouths and a bright moon shining amongst a sky full of twinkling stars. It was promising to be very cold overnight. The sort of night that only a landscape photographer with plans to get out of a warm bed before sunrise could get excited about.

So when my alarm went off at still-pitch-black o’clock in the morning, I pulled back the curtain to hopefully see my first pre-dawn faint glimpse of our surroundings. The loch was right in front of my window in the perfect direction for a January sunrise. And it was icy. Very icy. But where I had hoped for the glimmer of a sunrise, possibly reflecting in the icy loch, instead there were clouds.

But undeterred, I wrapped up warm and headed out. The edge of the loch had been frozen solid by the overnight cold (of presumably quite a few nights) and where the gentle waves had been lapping on the shore, there were cracks and overlapping sheets of ice standing up at strange angles where they had butted against one another. It was quite a beautiful sight. Like an Arctic landscape in miniature. As I stood there composing my image, and wondering how I was technically going to tackle it, it suddenly occurred to me, like a eureka light bulb moment. Just because I didn’t have my Hasselblad anymore, didn’t mean I couldn’t photograph like I had one. A large format camera is just a box with a lens after all, and the rules didn’t say that I needed to use any of the movements.

Suddenly it all made sense. I was free to enjoy the landscape again without constraining myself with all the technicalities that I had yet to master. But as I stood there, losing myself in the image on the back of my ground glass, a thought started slowly creeping into my head… perhaps if I use just a little bit of tilt… yes… that’s it… perfect.

You can see more of my landscape photographs on my Flickr page.

During these trips, I often don’t get a huge amount of time to make my own landscape images as I am helping everyone else. But on the first morning, a few of us got up early to photograph the sunrise. Of course, that never happened, due to the big grey clouds continuously covering the sky, but where the lake had flooded into the garden, trees and plants were poking their heads out of the water.

We woke up the next morning to photograph at dawn again, but by then the plants were all completely submerged. Only the trees were left with their tall trunks above the surface.

The alarm clock woke me up just over an hour before sunrise. Fortunately, it was a very respectable 6:45am. The room was still dark and I couldn’t see any indication of the rising sun through the crack I had left between the curtains. But I convinced myself out of bed and pulled them back. It was very foggy outside. Damn. If it wasn’t for the fact that I was there with a couple of other photographer friends, and we had all planned to meet at 7am, then I probably would have just gone back to bed. But I wasn’t sure what my friends had decided and I didn’t want to be the one who seemed like a fair-weather photographer, so I got dressed and knocked on their door.

It was very miserable outside and difficult to believe that we’d make a single image in the fog as we walked down the steep road in Robin Hood’s Bay down to the beach. We knew that the tide would be on its way out, leaving a pristine beach in its wake, but when we arrived at the water’s edge, it was higher than we had thought it would be. We could still get onto the sand, but there were only a few metres between the breakwall and the waves.

My friends immediately got their cameras out, but I was having difficulty getting inspired. There were no vistas to be seen and there was not much grabbing my attention in the foreground amongst the few rocks and small tidal pools. Everything was a dull and dreary grey due to the fog. The tide was moving out at quite a pace and as more was becoming revealed to us on the shoreline, slowly I was finding patterns and rocks that were interesting enough for me to start clicking the shutter.

When all of a sudden I turned around and saw that the fog was beginning to lift in the distance, exposing the tops of the cliffs across the bay. Things started moving really quickly now as the fog swirled around and changed every second. Quite often with landscape photography, you can work at a snail’s pace. Nothing much is changing and you can really spend your time thinking, focusing and waiting to get the image right. But then suddenly something happens and you have to crank up 10 gears and switch into autopilot as you see opportunities unfolding and disappearing in front of you within seconds and you don’t have the luxury of contemplation. Today was one of those mornings of the two extremes. Perhaps surprisingly, both are satisfying, although I wouldn’t want to be working at 100mph all the time, not least because it’s during the slow considered photography that you can really learn and put your thoughts into practice. But you can sometimes surprise yourself at what you manage to record on film during that manic phase simply because you didn’t have the time to fully take it in and register it at the time.

The scene in front of us changed so much during that last hour or so. The sun rose above the horizon, turning everything a rich purple, the fog slowly evaporated away, leaving a clear and beautiful day, completely different to that which we woke up to. And to think how close I was to just rolling over and going back to sleep. I will remember this morning each time I struggle to convince myself out of bed.

We soon turned onto a bridle path that steeply took us to a plateau near the top of Twistleton Scar, and once on top, I felt the excitement building. I was starting to see photographs everywhere I looked. The soft light was ideal for the limestone pavement with its clints and grikes, so that even down the sides of the deep fissures there was a little light, enough to record some detail on the film, instead of harsh shadows caused by the directional light of a sunny day. The occasional tree growing in between the limestone showed how harsh conditions could be up there. Often they were bent and severely windblown, shaped by the strong westerlies that frequently whip across the summit.

Once on top, we slowly split away from each other, every photographer consumed in their own little world, spreading out over the plateau, all of us being drawn to our own view, rock or wall. We photographed happily for a while until gradually the wind started to pick up and it became decidedly chillier as the distant view towards Ingleton became obscured by a passing storm. Unsure of which way it was heading, and very conscious of the fact that we were very exposed up on the top of the hill, we began making our way back towards each other again, knowing that we would be safer closer together as part of a group instead of spread wide and alone across the exposed hill. We were keeping an eye on the clouds to try to work out the direction that the storm was moving in and for several minutes we all just stood there, huddled together, hats drawn over our ears and collars pulled up protecting our faces. Which way was the storm moving? Should we start heading down already? Or can we risk staying up on top for a while longer? Was it actually going to snow? None of us were totally sure of the answers.

But as we watched and waited, it became apparent that the storm cloud was not heading in our direction, but was instead bearing off towards Ingeleborough. We would possibly catch the edge of it, but it wasn’t going to turn into a full-blown storm, so we picked up our tripods again and went back to our photography.

The next time I looked up, the cloud had completely obscured Ingleborough. But as I stood there looking at it, it starting to lift and swirl around. The summit of the mountain peaked through the cloud and suddenly I picked up my tripod and ran across the grass trying to find something I could use as a foreground. I didn’t have much time to think, and I was partly working on instinct, because I knew that the swirling cloud was not going be long lived. I headed straight for a line of some limestone pavement that served as a lead in to the frame and to Ingleborough in the distance, quickly metered off the rock, added an ND grad filter, glanced around the frame edge to double-check the composition, and then stopped to take a breathe. I wanted the cloud to be swirling around Ingleborough but I didn’t want too much of it to obscure the mountain nor not enough cloud, and it was changing every second. I knew I might not get a second chance, so wanted to make it count, but also couldn’t wait too long. Almost there…. almost…. click. Then before I knew it, the cloud was all gone. One moment, one chance, one picture.

When I started planning my trip to the Pembrokeshire coast in the south-west of Wales, one of my top locations to visit was Strumble Head. On the map, this location looked perfect. The coast here faces north, so the sun would be setting out to sea behind the lighthouse at this time of year. And I hoped that there would be a profusion of the famous thrift to complement the scene in the foreground.

On my first evening in the area, the light looked very promising so I decided to visit this much anticipated lighthouse. It was reasonably cloudy, but there were enough breaks to enable the setting sun to shine through the gaps. Although a bank of cloud at the horizon would block the sun lower down in the sky, the golden hues of early evening could still be captured. I reckoned that I still had a couple of hours before the sun would fall behind the bank of cloud, and there was always the chance that by then it might have broken up or moved away anyway. So as I parked my car in the small lay-by beside the lighthouse, I could feel the excitement building.

There’s always an instinct, when you see light so beautiful, to quickly get out your camera and start shooting straight away. But I knew that there was no real hurry, so decided to take a walk around the lighthouse and get a feel for the place, and think about my composition. To one side of the lighthouse was a bay surrounded by dark cliffs. Wild flowers were blooming on the cliff tops and it was an enchanting scene. But one side of the bay was in dark shadow that the camera wouldn’t have been able to record, and neutral density graduate filters would have been tricky to use. So I walked round to the other side of the lighthouse to see if anything else would present itself to me and instantly knew that here was my image. The lighthouse was standing out on the top of the rugged cliff with the zigzag of the rocks in middle distance leading back to the lighthouse. But I really wanted some of the beautiful pink flowers of the thrift to be adorning the foreground too. There were several small groups of the flowers growing on the grass in the foreground, but it was nearing mid-June and a lot of them were already past their best. I must have spent about an hour searching for the perfect bunch, which were pink enough and also positioned in such a way to be prominent in the foreground and back-lit with the setting sun.

I knew before I even pressed the shutter that I would be happy with the images. Barring any technical mistakes, but I had run through and double-checked everything in my mind to be sufficiently sure that the exposure would be fine. Just standing at the scene, hypnotised by the four flash pattern of the lighthouse’s light, I was sure that these images would be keepers and my love affair with the lighthouse was still alive and strong.

I had been to the location before, almost three years ago during my first trip to the island. I was enchanted by the place then and although that time we were there in time for the sunset, we were treated instead to rain showers and a menacing sky. Conditions that, despite having us running to and from the car each time the heavens opened, produced some atmospheric photographs and unforgettable memories. The place definitely got under my skin that evening. Although in my mind I think I was still longing for my never had sunset shot and we definitely weren’t going to get that today.

I tried to put my negative thoughts to the back of my mind. If I arrived with a preconceived notion that I would not be able to see any photographs, then it would become a self-fulfilling prophecy and the day would be wasted. I would spend my time there feeling frustrated and anxious, and not make a single image that really communicated the emotion I felt about the place. But I need not have worried, because as soon as we pulled into the car park, my excitement at being back again overwhelmed me and I eagerly ran up the path towards the stones.

Obviously, the vista was not going to work on a day like this, so I decided to focus on recording the details. The stones at Callanish are made of Lewisian gneiss, a beautifully ancient rock that over the aeons has been bent and folded, creating fascinating patterns in the banding. But I was in no hurry to just point my camera at the first rock I could find. So I took my time, took in the scene and the atmosphere. I walked around with my eyes open and my mind receptive, until I found my image.

Eventually, I came across a rock that had a large crack running diagonally across it near its base. The crack was on the shady side of the standing stone, which meant that there would be no harsh shadows from any bumps and grooves on the stone’s surface. I composed the crack so that there was a sense of balance and harmony within the composition yet at the same time recording the elemental rawness of the rock, its texture and the lichens growing on it.

Happy that I had made an image, I relaxed and enjoyed the sunshine.

When I woke up the following morning, however, conditions were not any better. Although instead of the driving snow from the day before, there was almost no wind but thick hill fog. So thick in fact, that it was only with some serious concentrating could you make out the outlines of the bases of the mountains. But as I sat eating my breakfast and gazing out of the window, I started to believe that the cloud was lifting. Only slightly, just shifting in places. So slowly a ridge would became more visible and then slowly disappear into the murk again. But it was enough to give me hope.

I decided that while conditions were less than perfect (and knew from the Met Office forecast that the fog was widespread across the region), venturing too far away from my base would be a waste of energy, so I decided to stay within Glencoe and watch what happened with everyone’s favourite mountain – Buachaille Etive Mor.

Buachaille Etive Mor is a truly inspiring and awesome mountain. It really does deserve its place in the hearts of the millions who have found themselves travelling along the A82. Its wonderfully imposing triangular presence announces your entry into Glencoe as you drive through Rannoch Moor to the southeast. However, because of its beauty, and its ease of access from the side of the road, every man and his dog has made or taken a photograph of the mountain already. There are even conveniently placed stopping bays located around it for those not willing to do more than wind down a window or stand just outside the car door to get their photograph. For those who want to take a bit more trouble for their art, there’s the small parking area just before the bridge on the Glen Etive road. From there it’s simply a skip across the road and you find yourself at a waterfall which graces the foreground of a thousand other photographs. The river also continues its way around and in front of the mountain, for more foreground interest, and there’s even a well-trodden path made by endless streams of photographers to guide you round.

Now it may sound like I’m criticising people, but I actually say it with my tongue very firmly in my cheek. For I myself am guilty of all three situations mentioned (the snapshot from the car, a more composed view from the waterfall, and for adding my footprints to the path by the river). The reason it has become a bit of a cliché is because it is simply one of the most breathtakingly beautiful views in the country.

Once breakfast was finished, I picked up my camera bag and headed to the aforementioned river. The clouds were definitely doing something. Although they were still very low, blocking most of the mountains from view, the occasional blue patch of sky was now making its appearance, and disappearance, at semi-regular intervals. Even though I couldn’t see Buachaille Etive Mor itself, I knew where it would be once it decided to show itself, and with this in mind, starting along the river on the search for something that would tie the picture together from foreground to background. As I was walking, suddenly about half of the mountain became visible. I knew that I either had to quickly make an exposure there and then or risk the cloud coming back again, but I hadn’t found what I was after from the river and hoped that because the mountain had shown itself once, it would do so again.

I was glad I had my wellies on when I eventually located the part of the river I was going to use as my foreground. Setting up my tripod mid-stream, I waited. Then waited some more. I could see the clouds swirling and evaporating on the mountain to the left, but there seemed to be no change on Buachaille Etive Mor. Despite wearing two pairs of socks, my toes were beginning to feel the cold of the river filled with snowmelt, but I could also tell that when the cloud decided to part and show the mountain, I would have to act quickly to get the kind of view I was after, so standing on the bank was not an option. Eventually a small part of the mountain decided to present itself to those watching. It seemed to take forever for the gap to become larger, as I waited, finger on the cable release trigger for just the right moment. I wanted the summit to be on view so that even without most of the mountain showing you would get a feeling of completeness, as even without the rest being visible, you could extrapolate because you knew where the pinnacle was. I stood in the river until my feet went numb, when the gap showed signs of closing in on itself again. I realised that if I didn’t make the picture now, I probably wouldn’t make one at all that morning. So I pressed the trigger.

The problem with clichés is that it’s very hard to make a photograph of it that’s really yours. That says something about the way you were feeling at that time, at that location; instead of it just being a copy of a hundred other pictures you have already seen. I may not have achieved my goal on this visit, but it’s always nice to have a work in progress at such a beautiful location, and therefore a reason to revisit.

Favourite photograph I made in 2007 – The Prison, Quirang, Isle of Skye, Scotland. I stood for quite a while, poised on the top of a small plateau on the rock structure as the swirling cloud came and went around me. I knew that if I waited long enough something magical would occur. Suddenly, the mist partly-obscured all but one of the pinnacles just as a bird landed on the rock on the right hand side. I knew instantly that this was the picture that I was waiting for.

Favourite bit of kit I bought in 2007 – A pair of wellies. OK, so I know it’s technically not a piece of photography kit, but having a pair of wellies has enabled me to literally take steps forward with my photography. Walking boots will allow you to skip across the occasional river or stand in a puddle, but if you want to wade into a river or let the tide wash over your feet then you need something more substantial. However, now I have the wellies, I am finding myself dreaming of owning some waders…

Favourite book I bought in 2007 – Life, by Frans Lanting. I was very fortunate to be at a presentation by world-renowned nature photographer Frans Lanting as he was promoting his Life exhibition in London earlier in the year. His collection of images for the project illustrates life on Earth from its earliest beginnings to the present day. It was one of the most inspiring and mesmerising presentations I have ever seen. To view his exhibition on the web, please visit: www.lifethroughtime.com

Favourite lesson I learned in 2007 – That successful photographs can also be made in soft lighting conditions. I am a huge fan of dramatic lighting, especially around dawn and dusk. The vast majority of my photographs are made around these golden hours and I rarely photograph outside them. But this year, I have started pushing myself out of my comfort zone and into uncharted territories. When the sky is grey and the sun no-where to be seen, I used to believe that the only good photograph to be made would be a more intimate landscape, concentrating on a small portion of the scene, a macro or an abstract. However, this year I have begun to see the potential, and the beauty, in the understated soft light for wider vistas too.

My Photographic Resolutions for 2008
The following are my photographic ambitions and goals for 2008.

To return to my black and white roots – I am not abandoning colour photography altogether, but I would like to get back into the darkroom during 2008, after many years away. When I first picked up a camera, I also took an evening college course, which was totally dedicated to black and white. I loved my time in the darkroom, but have since moved house (and never set-up my darkroom in my new home) and changed format (so my negatives wouldn’t fit in my enlarger anyway) but I have recently found myself wishing to get back in there with the smells and chemicals. If you haven’t experienced a print appear before your eyes in a tray of developer then I recommend you try it out as it’s an experience that you’ll never forget.

To create a 2009 calendar – A calendar is a great way to promote your photography. It means that you end up on someone’s wall for a whole year, and hopefully therefore, your name is also in their mind for a whole year too. I began thinking of creating my own calendar during 2007, but wasn’t completely convinced that I could achieve the quality in production that I was after within the limited timescale until the end of the year. However, as I have almost a whole year now to get organised, I hope my photography to be gracing a few walls come January 2009.

To enter more photo competitions – This really is a perennial resolution. As I write this, I know that I am a finalist in a major nationwide competition. So fingers crossed that I may even win! But whatever the outcome, I am motivated and eager to enter more in the coming year too.

I pulled into the car park and could see that the sun was illuminating the castle like a beacon. It shone with golden reflected light against the dark blue, shadowed harbour. I knew from my earlier recce that I wanted to make my composition from the opposite side of the harbour so that I had the low tide, the beach and the boats moored between where I stood and the castle, adding some interest to the middle distance.

I was all set up and had my composition sorted, so I turned around to get a roll of film from my backpack that was sitting in the sand behind me. I had my back turned for only a couple of seconds, but when I turned back, the castle was completely in shade. Not a single sunlit brick or stone. Damn. I turned back to look at the sun, to see if it was only temporarily hidden by some clouds but I couldn’t tell because the harbour wall was in the way. It was probably gone for good. OK. Rethink. Does the composition need changing? Is the picture still balanced? Overall, it was fine, and the sky behind the castle was beginning to turn a delicate shade of pink, complementing the blueness that now overwhelmed the scene.

It was getting very dark now, and the exposures would be of several seconds. I knew that Velvia 50 (original flavour – I haven’t yet made any test comparisons with the new Velvia 50 film) was very good at recording the subtle colours in a scene as more intense than they had seemed to be to human eyes over long exposures, so I hoped that there was a small amount of overall pinkness in the reflections that would be transferred to the film, so I decided not to give up now.

The temperature was plummeting as night time was quickly drawing in and I successfully made a series of images in the rapidly changing light.

As I packed up my camera and headed back across to the mainland, I couldn’t help but feel pleased with the effort I made, even if I wasn’t guaranteed any photographic results this time. I would have to wait until the pictures came back from the lab to know that I had made some good images. However I can’t help wishing that I had managed to photograph the castle in all its golden glory.

I was staying in Keswick, on the shore of Derwentwater and decided to take advantage of the changing weather by photographing the lake from the elevated position of one of the surrounding hills. If I set off just before the weather was due to clear, then I could be on the summit right as the magic happened and hopefully get some great photographs. Catbells has always been a favourite hill of mine, not only to look at with it’s wonderfully rounded knob of a summit, but also as a quick and easy climb when you’ve got a heavy rucksack of camera equipment on your back. So I drove off in the downpour towards the car park at the bottom of the hill.

When I arrived, ten or so minutes later, the rain was still showing no signs of easing and I was finding it difficult to persuade myself out of the warm, dry car to get soaking wet and cold outside. As I sat there contemplating my options, the rain began to ease up and I could see the clouds getting a bit brighter as the sun was attempting to show itself, so I decided to go for it, got out of the car, put on my waterproofs and started heading up the path through the bracken.

As I set off walking up the hill I became increasingly aware of how windy it was. This wasn’t at all apparent in the shelter of the town, but on the exposed path it was becoming more and more of an issue. I was finding myself having to hunch into the wind the make any headway on the more exposed parts of the path and the wind literally blew my breath away a few times. I was also being driven off the path and onto the grass verge beside it by the force of the wind quite frequently. Although I was less concerned with being blown off the side of the mountain and more worried about how my small and lightweight tripod would cope with such a battering. Even if I stood between it and the oncoming wind, I wasn’t totally convinced that my photographs wouldn’t suffer from the vibrations and movement in the tripod. This was one time when my sturdier tripod would have been a better choice, but it was back in the boot of my car and I wasn’t going back for it now.

After getting about two-thirds of the way to the top I decided that I would be a fool to continue further as it would only be even worse on the exposed summit (despite numerous people pushing past me and gaining even higher ground on their way to the top). However, I didn’t want the trip to be a wasted effort and the rain had now cleared away and the sun was lighting occasional patches of the landscape as it managed to find a gap between the clouds. So I took out my camera and mounted it on my tripod. It felt so vulnerable and I was reluctant to stand more than an arms length away from it in case I had to make a quick catch to stop it coming crashing down and breaking my lens. I took a couple of photographs but I wasn’t at all sure how well they would come out and continuing seemed like a danger to my safety and also to the possibility that I may well just be wasting film. So I decided to pack up my tripod, I turned around and starting heading back down to the car. But before I managed to get back to Keswick, the clouds had rolled in again and the skies were once again leaden. It seems like I had been lucky to enjoy the only brief moment of sunshine during the whole weekend with my camera in my hand.