17 August 2024
I have nestled myself within the embrace of this secluded bothy for several months now, and the passage of time has wrought its inevitable transformation upon the land. The once radiant summer, with its golden warmth and languid days, has begun to retreat, yielding to the delicate yet inexorable advance of autumn’s russet hues. Soon, the Scottish winter shall descend upon these rugged highlands—a season of bleak desolation and a chill that creeps into the very marrow of one’s bones.
Last night, as I reclined in my bed, enveloped in the comforting solace of a well-worn book, my thoughts drifted to the ancient whispers of a legend that haunts these lands—the Baobhan Sith. This spectral creature of the fae, so they say, prowls the wild and desolate moors, seeking out the unwary. Drawn to those who, under the cloak of night, take refuge in these lonely bothies or pitch their camps amidst the brooding hills—often hunters by intent, but all too easily becoming the hunted.
The very thought of such a being, with its ethereal beauty masking a ravenous hunger, sent a chill through me, one that had little to do with the encroaching cold. The boundaries between myth and reality seem to blur in these desolate places, where the land itself breathes with secrets, and the night is as treacherous as it is dark.
"You must never disrespect the wee folk. Always regard them with the utmost respect and reverence," my seanmhair, my dear grandmother, would often remind me in the soft, lilting tones of her native tongue. Her words, like so many of her teachings, were steeped in the ancient wisdom of our people—a wisdom that transcended the boundaries of time and place. No matter where life’s capricious winds had carried us, whether to the bustling streets of distant cities or the quiet corners of some far-flung countryside, our home was ever steeped in the old ways, the air thick with the scent of tradition and superstition.
Even now, as a woman wandering the world with a camera perpetually slung over my shoulder, I find myself unable to shake those early lessons, the rituals of respect ingrained so deeply in my soul. There is something profoundly comforting in their simplicity, a connection to a past that feels ever-present, even amidst the modernity of the world.
One such ritual, simple yet laden with meaning, remains with me to this day: the offering of cream or honey on the west side of the home, a humble gift for the wee folk, those mysterious, unseen denizens of the natural world. To some, it might seem a quaint or even foolish practice, a relic of a bygone era. But to me, it is an act of reverence, a way of acknowledging the ancient forces that shape our lives in ways we cannot always comprehend.
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I awoke at the first light of dawn, the lingering shadows of night swiftly dissolving into the soft grey of the morning mist. The thought of the Baobhan Sith, that haunting spectre of the highlands, had dissipated with the coming day, as if it were nothing more than a fleeting dream, a shadow passing over the soul. I busied myself with the mundane tasks of the morning, preparing a cup of coffee that steamed in the cool air, its warmth a small comfort as I readied myself for the journey ahead.
Today, the solitude of the bothy would give way to the company of others, as I made my way to the nearby village, where a dear friend had graciously offered me a lift to the train station. The artist’s life, for all its romanticism, is one of perpetual movement—a dance between the solitary creation and the communal celebration. This day’s travel was for the latter, a journey to the small seaside town of Oban, where the echoes of a wedding I had captured in May would find their final refrain in a late summer reception.
As I prepared for the evening’s work, the familiar rhythm of my craft brought a sense of calm. The camera, that faithful companion, felt like an extension of my own eye, poised to immortalise yet another moment in time, as fleeting and ephemeral as the seasons themselves. The bride, whose joy I had once captured beneath the burgeoning blossoms of spring, had chosen to gather her loved ones by the sea, where the winds would carry the echoes of their laughter across the waves.
The task ahead was a familiar one, yet each assignment carries its own peculiar charm, a uniqueness that only reveals itself in the unfolding of the day. As I made my way down from the highlands, leaving behind the rugged beauty of the moors, I found myself caught between two worlds—the wild, untamed spirit of the land I had called home these past months, and the gentler, more cultivated landscape that awaited me.
Oban, with its quaint charm and the vast expanse of sea that cradles it, was a world apart from the desolate grandeur of the highlands. Yet, in both, there was beauty to be found—beauty that, once captured, could be savoured long after the moment had passed, like the memory of a lover’s kiss, or the whisper of an ancient legend on the wind.
The bride, in her graciousness, has extended an invitation for me to stay the night and partake in the ceilidh—a tradition as vibrant and full of life as the very land itself. There is a certain magic in such gatherings, where music and merriment weave a tapestry of human connection, and where the cares of the world are momentarily forgotten in the whirl of the dance.
I confess, there is a certain allure in the prospect of the evening ahead. A night spent not merely as the observer, capturing moments from behind the lens, but as a participant—da
ncing, laughing, and perhaps indulging in a wee bit of drinking, as is the custom in such joyous occasions. The thought brings a smile to my lips as I imagine the night unfolding in a riot of music and laughter, the shadows of the highlands left far behind.
Tomorrow, when the first light of dawn once again peeks through the curtains, I shall return to this journal—my faithful companion in solitude—and regale the zero souls who read it with tales of my night’s adventures. There will be stories of work, of dancing, and of the small pleasures that make life all the more rich.
And though no one may ever read these words, the act of writing them will be enough—a quiet celebration of the life I lead, caught between the wild beauty of nature and the fleeting joys of human connection.