It’s not hard to take photographs here. The combination of landscape and constantly changing light means the world presents itself to you photographically, over and over.
It makes photography easy to practice and I confess I can do it lazily here, with a phone that likes taking landscapes.
What the easy-ness is good for is that it makes you itch to get outside, to see more, to notice the light and the landscape in each and every weather. (I’ve never had a dog but sometimes I feel like I am out taking the phone for a walk, responding to its nudges, its insistence on being taken outside.)
Watching the landscape in different weathers is a good way to get close up and familiar with a place, to get to know it in different aspects, colours and seasons. It deepens your relationship with a place. It’s part of what makes you feel genuinely at home.
Here are a few of my weather watching photos from last week. Although it was bitterly cold, fortunately the snow passed us by.
Lunch break, and the chance to breathe in air, coldness, light. A sudden splash of sunlight on the dark-cold water.
Driving back and forth all week I could see ice forming on the lochans, changing the colour and the texture of the water, deepening and darkening it, throwing up mad swirls, glinting in the late afternoon as the low sun caught a patch of ice.
The earliest I was free in daylight the day was biting cold with very little light but the ice-promise took me out regardless, still walking dislocated-gingerly, but out on the moor-path crunching ice puddles, regardless.
Although we had no snow to talk of, the hills are still snow-covered. You get to know them differently with this covering of snow and there are just so many times when the light falls on them, mesmerising. This outlook is just along the road. I don’t think I could ever tire of it.
The wind is a near constant here. It was a cold morning at the beach today, too cold to linger with the wind off the sea, but I like the colours of the coldness in this shot, and the grasses in the sand dunes in the wind.
A few notes on the practice and process:
Although the photography is easy here, a writing practice is still somewhere beyond me. I think maintaining this space and this weekly practice are part of preparing the ground though, and I’m willing to be patient and wait to see what unfolds.
Reviewing my pictures on a weekly basis feels significant too, a way to remember, to pay a different kind of attention, and to notice patterns that might otherwise have passed me by.
It’s also a fundamental part of the practice of sharing and telling as well as noticing for myself. I am grateful to those of you who have noticed my noticing and written in response.
If you feel that you would like to leave a comment in response to a post, it’s easy to do it on the website if you click through to read the post there, or, for those of you who get the posts by email, you can just write an email reply which comes to me, but isn’t shared on the web.
Quiet reading without commenting is of course perfectly fine too, and how I tend to read blogs myself nowadays.
I’ve done a slight adjustment this week to try and resize the photos that appear in the feed or your email, but I won’t know if it works until after it’s published… fingers crossed. Again, thanks to you all for reading.
We are enjoying a run of days not just of light but of hour after hour of bright, glorious sunshine. With the seascapes the way that they are here, it’s enough to make you gasp, enough to make you forget yourself in nothing but light and a picnic and the feel of the sand beneath you and sound of the waves on the shore.
Walking back from the picnic the machair at Northton was full of lapwings, scores of them, the land was dotted with them, the sky was singing with them, forty or fifty rising up at once in front of us, spilling flashes of black and brilliant white in their acrobatics, till the heart was bursting full with it, spilling song, spilling poems, spilling light.
“Chris Watson the sound recordist captures the sounds of starlings on the Island of Coll. The birds seem to emulate the sound of a two-stroke engine memorised by previous generations and passed down through history.” – listen here
(Sometimes the world arranges itself into a black and white photograph.)
Sunrise today 7.50am, sunset 5.29pm. 9 hours and 39 minutes of daylight, 3 hours and more longer than the shortest day.
Word of the day: “numinous” – revealing the presence of the divine; giving rise to a feeling of spiritual transcendence, especially in nature or art (from Latin numen – divinity, divine power).
(Twitter has much that is wrong with it, but the word of the day from Robert Macfarlane is one of the things worth still being there for.)
The internet makes me think I should keep looking for new places to photograph, or for novel ways to capture the same. My heart asks me otherwise: to repeat and repeat, over and over, with gratitude, and love.
“I’ll tell you right now, the doors to the world of the wild self are few but precious. If you have a deep scar, that is a door; if you have an old, old story, that is a door. If you love the sky and the water so much that you almost cannot bear it, that is a door. If you yearn for a deeper life, a full life, a sane life, that is a door.”
The first weeks of the first year of being here are all mixed up with snow and ice, with dislocation and fear of falling, with car warning lights and a broken spring all limiting my travelling, the paths that I might follow. Still, I let the camera pull me outside and on a winter’s morning I already know there’s a safe and easy path that will lead me through the moor to a view to snow topped hills.
The weather here is so intense, so changeable. It dominates your thinking, it changes how you see. This week we’ve had ice, snow, hail, a night of gales and battering rain, and a day of the most exquisite sunshine, so lovely there was nothing for it but to sit in the garden for a while and simply soak up being here.
Every time I step outside: to the garden, to the bins, to the car, there they are, these noisy iridescent starlings. They call and click and chatter and whistle, swooping off and up and round and back. I knew that starlings mimicked but I wasn’t ready for how different they sound here, how they call with the sound of the sea. Even when they are not here I feel their absence, their missing presence.
The practice of photography helps me notice where I am. I am grateful for the familiarity of practice, for the fundamentals of the task. Watching colour, patterns, light.
I’m trying to build the habit of posting here once a week. Sometimes I feel I don’t have much to say, I’m too busy paying attention to simply being here.