Believing in Spring

Sunrise today 6.33am, sunset 6.34pm. 12 hours of daylight. 2 days to the equinox.

10.9 hours of sunshine yesterday in Stornoway.

(I know, we are lucky. But everything here is done to extremes, including the sunlight.)


When I got home at the end of my working week the first daffodils were out, planted the day after we moved here.

We cannot help but believe in the return of the spring.

first daffodil


If you want to go faster, then don’t walk; & when you are walking, there is only one sort of performance that counts: the brilliance of sky, splendour of landscape. Walking is not a sport

~ Frédéric Gross

Sunday beach


The hardest thing about blogging is the feeling you’re supposed to have something clever to say, some wisdom learned. I scratch my mind, my week, my heart, for scraps but wisdom there is none.

All I want to say and learn to keep on saying is thank you.

morning light

Thank you, thank you.

Landscape Mode

The days are stretching, the skies on my drive home alive with light and a last burst of colour. I am learning the places where I might safely watch, and notice.

last light

The sun was so bright on Friday that the world turned brilliant blue. We didn’t seem to have the words for it. ”Did you see how blue it was today?” ”I know, it was just so blue.”

blue loch


The Scottish Landscape Photographer of the Year awards were announced this week. The pictures are stunning. They make me want to:

get outside!
climb hills!
look after this most beautiful planet!

(And boost my motivation not just to take but to share my photos.)


Beautiful as countless landscapes of this island might be, sometimes it looks just like this.

Lewis skyline

And talks straight to the soul.

Watching the Weather

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.

lunchtime sun

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.

frozen loch

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.

snow on the hills

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.

wind in the dunes, Gress beach

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.

Spilling Light

I wasn’t sure I would find snowdrops on the island, a place with so few trees, but here they were, tucked away amongst the muddy paths of the castle grounds, waiting to have their picture taken.

snowdrops, castle grounds


Every year, in the third week of February, there is a day, or more usually a run of days, when one can say for sure that the light is back […] the light spills into the world

Kathleen Jamie, Sightlines
found on Twitter, here


afternoon light, loch erisort

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.

west coast picnic spot


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.

harris hills

Water and Sky

Monday morning, snowlight. Starlings on the wire.

morning light, starlings on the wire


I’m not the only one to be astonished by the mimicry of starlings.

“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


boat, Keose harbour

(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.


to greet the morning


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).

~ @robgmacfarlane on twitter

(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.


February day, Loch Erisort


“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.”

~ Clarissa Pinkola Estés, quoted at Whiskey River here (my emphasis)

Being Here

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.

watching the 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.

harbour reflection


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.

For Our Senses to Grow Sharper

Photography practice in my lunch-break by the harbour. Colour, pattern, light. My fingers trembling in the cold north wind.

green harbour rope


Tuesday evening and already I am office-weary, paper tired, screen glazed over.

‘I’m not going to practice today,’ I say to myself. ‘You don’t have to wonder all the time. Everyday doesn’t mean every day anyway. I’m too tired to wonder today.’

‘I understand,’ answered the moon, hanging fat and nearly full over the office car-park, hanging fat and nearly full and dizzy white and brilliant clear, enough to make you gasp with wonder.


Another day of wind and rain, the light never shifting past a state of half-dark. Another day with nothing to see, I think and then catch myself:

I mean another day with nothing to capture and I shift my gaze to what I can see: the muted amber browns of the moor in the rain, the way the wind moves over the slate-grey loch, and ruffles its surface.


Watching the heather in winter and I had forgotten how much the winter talks of summer coming, the promise made by flowers.

winter heather


Feeding the birds before work ~ the silhouettes of starlings in the wind-blown over rowan, the loudness of the honking of geese.


The weather changes at the weekend and we’re blessed with two sunlit days, so mild in the sun by Loch Seaforth that I sit for a while without a jacket and watch the water. It’s so quiet down there, so peaceful, so still, I can hear the seaweed popping as it’s dried by the warmth of the sun.

Loch Seaforth in February sun

The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.

~ W.B.Yeats

Watching the Light

Sunrise today: 8.38am. Sunset today: 4.39pm. 8 hours of sunlight. 1 hour and 35 minutes longer than the shortest day.


Driving home at twenty past five and for the first time the sky is still light. There’s no daylight left but it’s not yet dark and the sky is twilight blue the whole way home, and the lochs by the roadside as the road bends and curves are the palest twilight blue, like the flashes of a torch, like the thump of a heart beat, illuminating our passage.


A sunlit lunchtime, the first for I don’t know how long, and with the snow almost away there’s a quality to the mud and grass that reminds you for a moment of the first taste of spring, echoing with robinsong, and nothing for it but to stand and catch the light.


Leaving the building just after 5pm, people stop and stare at the sky.

‘Have you seen the light?’, someone says.

‘Did you see it this morning? Look at the light!’


The ice might have gone but the gale that follows stops me walking. Even a picture in the garden’s hard as the wind tries to whip the phone from my hand. I lean against the wall of the old blackhouse for support, and watch its light.

black house in sun


I’m still not sure what photography means or why it matters. Perhaps it’s just a question of watching the light.


And though I came to forget or regret all I have ever done, yet I would remember that once I saw the dragons aloft on the wind at sunset above the western isles; and I would be content.

~ Ursula Le Guin

Behind the Glass

I have been in the house all week. The combination of a dislocated shoulder and days of snow and ice have kept me on the inside, looking out, behind the glass. For once I am not missing it, the outside. The fear of falling has made me glad to be indoors, and I have plenty to keep me occupied between Gaelic still to learn (since a language is something you can never reach the end of learning) and the internet to entertain and a stack of real, hard-copy books that’s part of my collection and intention to resume a reading habit.

Yet still something keeps on gnawing at me, some missing connection, some missing link, some meaningful sustained creative practice, some way to reach beyond the glass.


Friday morning, five past nine, I watch the birds through the living room window. The waters of the loch beyond are cold, a steely grey. Clouds drift above the water. As I watch, the clouds shift in colour, the edges tinged with the first hints of sunrise, as the morning starts to break behind the hill. The moment fills with hints of goldlight, edge of sunlight, the heart is full for just one moment with nothing but the rising of the morning.

Watching through the living room window, the headlights of my neighbour’s car creep slowly down the hill.


Fragment by fragment, I remind myself. Although for more than a long time I have wished that I could shape and mould these fragments of mine into form, into poems, into essays, into three lines even or the rhythm of 17 syllables they are resolute in their defiance and slip away if I chase them too hard. Perhaps that is all that there is for me, and perhaps that too is enough.


I take a photograph from the inside out. Picking up letters from the porch the light pulls me, demands I find my phone and take a photo, through the glass. I still don’t know why or what it is, this need to take photographs, even today stuck inside, taking pictures through the glass-glare, once again this magnetic desire: to click, to notice, to say thank you.

looking out


I have been feeding the birds by the door for fear of setting foot on the ice. I notice the pattern of their feeding on the ice, marking their time this week, and mine.

bird tracks


Reading this made me think about how we make connections online. Although the article’s about love, it reminded me, wistfully, of how much I used to believe in blogging as a human, democratic form, and the possibilities it offered us to forge connections, to stretch out our hands, to offer some small glimpse of our selves to others. Has that possibility really gone, or is still ours to claim?


More snow has fallen, soft and crunchy. The ice-fear reduces and I walk into the garden. The sun is falling through the shadows of the trees, I mean its branches, I mean here for a moment there is nothing but this meld of shadow tree and sunlight snow and a roll of winter’s memory.



Perhaps this is my practice. Perhaps this place and space, this knowledge I have of how to link and mix together pictures and words, to piece together fragments, perhaps this act of blogging is of itself, for me, creative practice, no need for more.


Saturday morning, sunlit snow. Feeling stronger, fitter, brighter, braver and with someone else in the house during daytime hours in case I’m needing rescued I venture out at last, five minutes down the road. A snow path by the harbour. Sunlight glinting on snow. The sun is strong and the air delicious. The starlings are shouting with the love of it, their squawks like a serenade. I wish I could lie down on the snow path and take photo after photo of the way the light falls. It feels like Christmas morning, like New Year’s morning, like the first morning.

snow and shadow

Away and Towards

more than ever we need people willing to pause and listen, to open their hearts to what is uncomfortable, and to hold space and attention until the new thing emerges

~ Christine Valtners Paintner

Every so often, mainly on a Sunday, I think about writing something here. It can’t be that hard I think: just a title, a photograph, some words. A way back in, opening the door, back into your own space.

Sometimes I find a title, and sometimes a photo, and sometimes the fragments of some words, but even so, I don’t get beyond.

It’s something to do with the seeming size of the task, to find something worth saying, a practice worth practicing in the face of all the… the sheer weight of all the stuff that’s going on out there, day in, day out, relentless, remorseless.

It’s something to do with the shininess of the modern web, its gloss and promise. I miss the scruffiness of the human web I used to know, the home-made sites, the people sharing words and worlds without pretence at knowing.

Yet still in the turning away from so many things I do not wish to list, still there is a turning towards even if the shape of the new thing is unknown.

It’s not (for me) Art, or Writing, or Photography, but still something in this space between the lines that blogging offered / offers: unpolished, not knowing, open, human, connecting, here.

I fear I am not close to finding half the words I wish to, but also do not wish to let another Sunday pass away without some claiming back of space, some way of saying that even as we turn away and further keep on turning – we can still turn towards: unpolished, unknowing, open, human, here.

With thanks to Christine at the Abbey of the Arts for sharing ‘Mystical Hope and the New Thing‘ including the reminder to keep practicing, together and the nudge to me to keep going.