[WrenX]'s diary
My only claim to fame is...
My Dad toured with the Zombies in the 80's and my distant cousin is Johnny Cash.
Oh and I've been named as one of the best wedding photographers'
I can't wait to share this article EVERYWHERE when it's officially released!
31 August 2024
The gods, it seems, have chosen to bestow their rare and radiant favour upon Scotland these past two days! Imagine it: the sun shining with a brilliance that could rival any Mediterranean shore, the warmth of the air a gentle embrace, and not a cloud to be seen in the wide blue expanse above. For two glorious mornings now, my runs have been nothing short of enchanting, as if the very air were infused with some ancient magic. There is something truly delightful about running through the streets of my little village when the weather is so agreeable, the rhythm of my feet in perfect harmony with the bright and buoyant day.
Ah, but one must not get too accustomed to such indulgence. I know all too well that these fair days are but a fleeting gift. This week may dazzle with its unseasonable splendour, but autumn is lurking just beyond the horizon, ready to sweep in with its brisk winds and long, dark nights. The sun will soon begin its retreat from our bonnie shores, leaving us to huddle closer to our firesides as the chill of the season takes hold.
After my run, I returned home, only to discover that three of my dear friends had taken the liberty of letting themselves in—a scene that felt both familiar and absurdly fitting. They had also made free with my kitchen, commandeering the blender to concoct breakfast smoothies. The whole affair felt like a playful nod to that infamous scene from Mean Girls, only this time the invitation was more direct: "Come on, loser, we're going hiking."
Being already clad in my athletic attire, I had little choice but to join in their impromptu adventure. What followed was a ten-mile loop that led us along the sea and into the heart of Glencruitten Forest. Naturally, no one thought to mention that we would be venturing off the beaten path, and so my poor running shoes ended up thoroughly soaked, a soggy testament to the unpredictabili
As we made our way back into town, the merriment was uncontainable, and soon we were all singing as we walked, our voices rising in spontaneous harmony. There is a particular joy in such moments, when the spirit of camaraderie takes over, and the whole world feels alive with possibility.
In the end, it was a morning well spent—a perfect blend of vitamin D and a generous dose of vitamin Sea. Scotland, it seems, is intent on showing off, and I, for one, am content to bask in its glory while it lasts.
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In my line of work, I have the delightful fortune of encountering some rather remarkable individuals, each more fascinating than the last. Just recently, I completed a gallery from a most splendid family gathering, which took place last month. Now, this was no ordinary family affair, I assure you. This particular clan embodies the very essence of "go big or go home"—and they certainly did not disappoint.
Having flown in from the States, they swept into Scotland with all the grandeur of a royal entourage, taking over an entire mansion as their residence for the occasion. Every detail was executed with impeccable taste and a flair for the dramatic. The family members were dressed to the nines, each outfit more exquisite than the last, as if they had all stepped out of the pages of some high-fashion magazine. It was, in a word, extraordinary.
But the pièce de résistance of this already magnificent event was a surprise that left everyone breathless—a gift of three signed football jerseys, no less, by the legendary Cristiano Ronaldo himself. The sight of these coveted relics, presented with all the fanfare one might expect, was enough to send even the most stoic of hearts aflutter. The reaction of the family, caught between sheer disbelief and ecstatic joy, was a moment I was privileged to capture—one that will no doubt be cherished for generations to come.
Indeed, there is something uniquely thrilling about being a part of such grand celebrations, where every moment is infused with a sense of occasion and where the extraordinary is simply par for the course. It is in these moments that one truly appreciates the power of gathering, of shared experiences, and of the memories that bind us all together. And I, as always, am both humbled and honoured to be the one to preserve these memories in all their opulent glory.
30 August 2024
I am, without a doubt, a creature of habit—a steadfast devotee to the sacred rituals that govern my days. Woe betide the poor soul or errant force that dares disrupt them, for such disturbances leave me as unsettled as a misaligned star. Last night was just such an occasion. Though I have taken to sleeping later than usual, it is a rare occurrence that I am not awake by half-past six or seven. Yet, as I began to slip into that exquisite liminal state between wakefulness and slumber—the very threshold of dreams—I was abruptly yanked back to harsh reality by a voice. Not just any voice, mind you, but one of a distinctly masculine timbre, refined and accented, though certainly not British. Its clarity was so striking that, should I hear it again, I could pluck its owner from a crowded room with ease.
This unexpected intrusion propelled me from the warmth of my bed back into the living room, my sanctuary from the night’s strangeness. I am well acquainted with the subtle nuances of my deity, the Morrígan, and her many guises. Yet this was not she; not the war-crow Badb, nor the sovereign Macha, nor even the fearsome Nemain.
Nevertheless, habit held me in its comforting grasp. By seven, I found myself stumbling towards the kitchen, driven by the one ritual that I dare not forgo—coffee. A half cup later, I donned my running attire and fled into the town, the intended half-hour run extending into a full hour. The remnants of the previous night clung to me like cobwebs, and only the rhythmic pounding of my feet on the pavement could begin to clear my mind.
Upon returning to my humble bothy, I reached for my oracle deck—a deck I reserve solely for communion with the Morrígan. I drew the cards, and there, amidst the spread, lay the bean sídhe. My family, after all, is one of the few cursed or perhaps blessed with the ability to hear her call. The last time I heard it was but a month before my father passed into the otherworld, so I do not take her presence lightly. Though I sense no imminent physical death, I cannot escape the feeling that a significant chapter of my life is drawing to a close, and that its end will not be a gentle one.
Of course, this only served to further agitate my thoughts. In an effort to reclaim some semblance of peace, I took to cleansing my home with sacred oils and tinctures, lovingly crafted from the native plants of my homeland. Incense now burns in every corner, and my protections have been meticulously renewed. The air is thick with Gaelic melodies, filling the rooms with their ancient resonance. If an omen is indeed on its way, it shall find no easy entrance here.
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Today has been nothing short of a minor miracle in Scotland, where sunshine is as rare as an honest politician. The sun, in all its hesitant glory, graced us with its presence, casting a gentle warmth over the land—just enough to remind one that summer isn’t merely a figment of the imagination. The air was cool, as it often is, but without that biting chill which so frequently nips at our spirits. It was the sort of day that invites one to linger by the window, a book in hand, and to let the hours drift by in a pleasant haze of quiet productivity.
Now, as the evening settles in, I've taken to indulging in the simple pleasures that mark the close of a day well spent. A glass of wine, red and rich, is now my companion as I unwind. There's something profoundly satisfying about that first sip, the way it smooths the rough edges of the day, coaxing the mind into a more leisurely pace.
But the evening’s delights do not end there. In an act of cheerful escapism, I shall be joining a dear friend in a virtual watch party, where we shall revel in the innocent charms of a Disney film. It’s a curious thing, really, how the magic of childhood can still enchant us, no matter how many years have slipped away. There’s a certain comfort in those timeless tales—perhaps a reminder that, despite the complexities of the adult world, there is still a place for wonder and whimsy.
And so, with wine in hand and the promise of animated adventures ahead, I bid farewell to the day. It has been, in its own quiet way, quite perfect.
29 August 2024
Ah, the exquisite balance of my nature is something I cherish deeply. I present myself as a woman of grace, composure, and refinement—a lover of the arts, educated, and articulate. Yet, beneath this polished exterior lies a heart that beats with the fierce blood of Scotland. It is rather amusing, really, how swiftly I can shed my genteel veneer and embrace a ruthlessness that even I find a tad alarming. I am not easily provoked, you see, but there is a particular kind of insolence that awakens the Highlander within me—the kind where one dares to belittle or manipulate those I hold dear.
Ah, but when some pathetic imposter attempts to parade as something they are not, using their hollow charade to wound my friends—well, darling, they’re in for quite the surprise. They’re about to encounter a woman who has no qualms about dismantling their fragile ego with ease. You see, my femininity is no leash for you to tug, no matter how you might control others. Your charade is as transparent as a glass of cheap whisky, and I must confess, I find it utterly delightful to watch a strong woman bring a weak man to his knees. But enough of this! I have a business to run, after all. Oh, how terrifying—a woman with a mind of her own, degrees on her wall, and her own money to boot! I'm sure if you are reading, you know who you are. If the shoe fits, wear it.
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My day commenced with a delightful run, a solitary hour where the rhythm of my breath matched the cadence of my thoughts, clearing the cobwebs from my mind and sharpening my senses like the finest blade. There is something profoundly satisfying in that early morning stillness, when the world is yet to fully rouse, and one can revel in the quiet grandeur of self-disciplin
Upon my return, I was greeted by the sweet symphony of tasks awaiting my attention—enqu
Today’s agenda is a masterpiece in the making. Galleries need curating, invoices demand my swift attention, and appointments must be set with precision. And, of course, there is the small matter of preparing for the wedding I am to capture this coming weekend—a union of souls that I shall immortalise through the lens of my camera, each click a brushstroke in the art of love.
The life of an independent woman, so often feared by lesser minds, is not merely a series of tasks but a symphony of purpose. Every gallery I complete, every invoice I send, and every appointment I schedule is a note in the grand composition of my life. And as I prepare to capture the essence of a wedding, I am reminded that I am not just a witness to life’s beauty—I am its artist, its curator, its sovereign.
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The timelines are nearly complete, with the final touches falling into place like the last pieces of a grand puzzle. Next weekend promises to be a marathon—a 12-hour day steeped in celebration, culminating in a ceilidh to which I’ve been most graciously invited. I suppose it’s time to dust off my dancing shoes and prepare for an evening of revelry!
It’s amusing, really—I’ve attended more ceilidhs this year than in all the years before combined, and I’ve developed a rather fond affection for their exuberance and vitality. There is a certain magic in the swirl of tartan, the lively music that seems to pulse with the very heartbeat of Scotland, and the sheer joy of it all. And, of course, there’s the undeniable thrill of being swept off one’s feet—quite literally—by strong, rugged Scotsmen.
Ah, the delight of it! To be twirled and tossed about in a dance that is as much a celebration of life as it is of tradition. It’s the stuff of fantasies, really—every girl’s dream, if we’re honest. The thrill of surrendering to the rhythm, of being part of something so wonderfully chaotic yet perfectly orchestrated. A ceilidh, after all, is not merely a dance; it’s an experience, a fleeting moment of pure, unadulterated joy. And who could resist such a tempting invitation?
28 August 2024
I awoke this morning with the lingering remnants of illness, a shadow of yesterday's malaise clinging to me like a stubborn ghost. Yet, the notion of remaining ensconced in bed for another day seemed a defeat too great to bear. With the resolve of one determined to reclaim some semblance of vitality, I rose and made my way to the diminutive living room, where I could indulge in the simple pleasure of watching the birds flit about outside my window. There is a peculiar kind of solace in observing their morning rituals, the way they greet the dawn with a nonchalance that borders on the divine. As I sipped my coffee, its warmth seeping into my bones and coaxing my thoughts into wakefulness, I engaged in conversation with a friend on this site—a delightful exchange of ideas ranging from the curious intricacies of cane preferences to the enigmatic allure of old compasses, and, of course, the ever-subjectiv
The coffee, that marvellous elixir, did its work, stirring my mind from its slumber. Feeling the stirrings of restlessness, I dressed and decided that a walk might do my languid body some good. And indeed, it was precisely what I needed—a gentle promenade that breathed life into my limbs and scattered the cobwebs of illness that had lingered too long.
Upon my return, invigorated and a touch more like myself, I turned my attention to the tasks awaiting me. First, I completed a gallery and sent it off to a client, feeling a small surge of satisfaction as I did so. But my day was far from over. Before me lay a sea—a veritable ocean—of emails and enquiries demanding my response. There were invoices to send, others to pay, and the ever-present task of updating my website, which always seemed to require more attention than time would allow.
In the midst of all this, there is the promise of a conversation with my cousin from across the pond. She resides in the States, and though the miles between us are vast, the prospect of hearing her voice is a comfort, a reminder of the ties that bind us, no matter the distance. It will be good to speak with her—a reprieve from the demands of the day and a chance to reconnect with family, which, like the morning birds, offers a certain kind of peace.
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Today, I found myself on the precipice of accomplishment
Fortune, it seems, has granted me a small reprieve, for I have a little more than a week until my next wedding, that most exquisite and demanding of affairs. This window of time is a gift, an opportunity to delve deeper into my work, to pare down the queue that stretches before me like a path through a shadowed wood.
With invoices dispatched and payments secured, the practicalities of my trade have been seen to with the diligence they deserve. Enquiries, too, have been answered, each one a thread woven into the fabric of this day’s labour. And now, with the demands of the day finally quelled, I find myself at liberty to indulge in a moment of pure, unadulterated luxury.
The prospect of a glass of wine beckons—its rich, ruby warmth promising to soothe the frayed edges of my mind. And what better companion to such a pleasure than a bubble bath, that most decadent of retreats? To sink into the embrace of warm water, the air perfumed with the delicate scent of bath oils, is to experience a kind of serenity that borders on the sublime. As I close my eyes and let the world melt away, I am reminded that, amidst the chaos of creation and the relentless march of time, there is still space for beauty, for rest, for the quiet joys that make life so exquisitely worth living.
1171565 Link to this entry
Written about Tuesday 2024-08-27
Written: (4 days ago)
Written about Tuesday 2024-08-27
Written: (4 days ago)
Next in thread: 1171566
A Much Needed Rest Day
August has been nothing short of a tempest, a maelstrom of work and weather that has left me both physically and mentally exhausted. This morning, I awoke in my bothy, determined to adhere to my regular schedule, a testament to my nature as a creature of habit. My day typically begins with the comforting ritual of a steaming cup of coffee followed by a brisk half-hour run through the trails, a routine that anchors me. However, as I stirred from the cocoon of my blankets, I was met with the unwelcome reality of every muscle in my body protesting in discomfort. The toll of carrying camera equipment through the rugged corners of Scotland had taken its price. To add to my woes, I felt a persistent tickle in my throat—a foreboding sign that a cold might be making its presence known.
With a heavy sigh, I conceded to the wisdom of rest and decided to forgo my run. Instead, I nestled back into my bed, catching up on emails and editing photos in the dim morning light. The stillness of the bothy, while not ideal for my usual burst of productivity, was a welcome reprieve from the relentless pace of recent weeks.
It was during this quieter moment that I received a text from Fionn. We had met in this small, almost mythical corner of the world, despite my origins in Edinburgh and his roots in County Clare, Ireland. Our connection is as deeply entwined with history as the Celtic traditions that both our families uphold. His clan and mine share a lineage that stretches back through the ages, and this shared heritage seems to bestow upon him a profound sense of duty and honour.
Fionn’s message was as expected—he had heard of my illness and, true to form, he insisted he would stop by this evening to check on me. It’s a peculiar thing, this sense of honour that he brings to our relationship. Though I’ve never asked for such care, he is bound by a code of conduct that seems to compel him to ensure that I, a Ghobhain, Fear de sheann chinnidhean riaghlaidh na h-Alba (a keeper of ancient Highland traditions), am well looked after. His commitment is both touching and unwavering, a reflection of the deep-seated values that we both share.
I am touched by his gesture, though I would never expect such attentions. Yet, there is something profoundly reassuring in the knowledge that, even in this remote corner of the world, I am not alone. Fionn’s visit will be a welcome balm, a reminder of the ties that bind us and the honour that transcends mere tradition. And as I rest and recover, I will find comfort in the knowledge that such connections endure, even amidst the tempestuous tides of life.
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I find myself having spent the better part of the day in bed, my initial suspicion of a mild cold proving overly optimistic. What I thought might be a passing inconvenience has settled into something more formidable—per
Fionn, ever the vigilant friend, has checked in on me twice now. His concern is a comforting constant, a reminder of the steadfastness that characterizes our bond. He arrived earlier with a bottle of fresh orange juice, his expression a mix of worry and gentle reprimand for not taking better care of myself. It’s a small gesture, but one that speaks volumes about his nature—practic
Now, as the evening deepens, I find myself propped up in bed, the soft glow of Netflix flickering across the room. The familiar drone of a series I’ve watched countless times before plays in the background, more for the comfort of its predictability than for any real engagement. My body is weary, aching in that dull, persistent way that leaves no room for argument. I can feel sleep tugging at the edges of my consciousness, coaxing me back into its embrace.
Before I drift off, I can’t help but hope that tomorrow brings some measure of relief. There is work to be done, commitments to fulfil, and I cannot afford to be bedridden much longer. But for now, I must surrender to the demands of my body, trusting that rest will do what it must. As I turn off the screen and nestle deeper into my covers, I take one last sip of the orange juice Fionn brought, feeling its citrus tang linger on my tongue—a small, bright note in the otherwise grey expanse of the day.
With that, I close my eyes, willing myself to heal, to wake with more strength than I possess tonight. And as I drift into sleep, I am grateful for the quiet moments of care and the presence of those who make even the most difficult days a little easier to bear.
1171562 Link to this entry
Written about Monday 2024-08-26
Written: (4 days ago)
Written about Monday 2024-08-26
Written: (4 days ago)
Next in thread: 1171563
A Day on Skye to Myself
I awoke in the early hours, the soft whispers of dawn barely intruding upon the velvet stillness of my room. The Flodigarry House Hotel, my temporary abode, is a marvel of opulence—a sanctuary nestled on the rugged, wind-swept coast of Skye. How curious it is that such grandeur can be found in the most remote corners of Scotland, as if the island herself decided to crown her wild beauty with a gem of human artifice.
The sands of Staffin lie like a white ribbon against the steel-grey sea, their softness a deceptive promise of warmth. But the northern air, biting and crisp, reveals the truth—this is a place where nature reigns supreme, where beauty is tempered by a sharp, cold edge. I spent the morning with pen in hand, weaving words into a tapestry of thoughts, editing the fragments of yesterday’s musings, and preparing myself for what might be my final hike through the Quiraing this year.
The Quiraing—a landscape torn from the pages of some ancient myth, where the earth herself seems to have been sculpted by the hands of gods. It is a place that beckons the soul to wander, to lose oneself in its folds and crevices. But this enchanted land is not without its dangers. After August, the weather on Skye becomes a capricious mistress, unpredictable and wild. The roads, once passable, glaze over with ice, and the world shrinks beneath the heavy mantle of winter. The sun, that ever-fleeting companion, offers but six hours of light before retreating once more into the shadows, leaving one to navigate the encroaching darkness.
Something I’ve pondered often, especially when the days begin to grow shorter: Why did the minds of Anne Rice and Bram Stoker choose to place their monsters in the more refined, sun-drenched regions of the world? The Gothic allure of New Orleans and the grand, decaying estates of Transylvania certainly hold their own dark charm, but I can’t help but think that if such beings as vampires truly existed, they would surely find their true home in places like Scotland and Ireland—where the wild beauty of the land meets the deep, unsettling stillness of the long winter nights.
Here, in the dead of winter, the darkness settles in early, wrapping the landscape in an inky shroud that feels almost alive. The cold is a biting, relentless presence, and the wind howls through the glens like a chorus of forgotten souls. It’s easy to imagine ancient creatures lurking in the shadows, drawn to the desolate beauty of the moors and the ancient stones that bear witness to centuries of history. This land feels steeped in something otherworldly, something that calls to the darker sides of the imagination.
Perhaps it’s the isolation, the way the landscape seems to close in around you during those long, frigid months, when the sun barely rises above the horizon and the nights stretch on endlessly. In such a setting, the line between the real and the imagined begins to blur, and it’s not difficult to see how a creature of the night could thrive here, hidden away in some crumbling castle or a forgotten glen. There’s a certain poetry to the idea—a creature born of darkness, at home in a land where darkness reigns supreme for much of the year.
And then there’s the deep, ancient magic that seems to pulse just beneath the surface of these lands, a magic that has drawn storytellers and dreamers for centuries. It’s a place where the veil between worlds feels thin, where one might almost expect to catch a glimpse of something—or someone—lurkin
So while the polished streets of New Orleans and the brooding Carpathian Mountains have their allure, I’ve always believed that the true haunt of creatures like vampires would be here, in the rugged and untamed corners of Scotland and Ireland. Here, where the land itself seems to whisper secrets to those who listen, and where the darkness is a companion, not an enemy. Here, where the monsters of our nightmares would feel most at home.... I digress.
After checkout, I made my way to a quaint little place in Portree, a gem I often return to, where the charm of simplicity is matched only by the warmth of the people who pass through its doors. The morning had sharpened my appetite, and I settled into a quiet outdoor corner with an early lunch—a modest sandwich, yet comforting in its familiar taste. As I savoured each bite, lost in the soft hum of the village, I noticed a shadow flit across the cobblestones. Looking up, I caught sight of a raven, his ebony wings slicing through the air with an elegance that only nature can bestow.
The next moment, he was there, perched beside me with an audacity that bordered on the supernatural, his beady eyes flicking between my sandwich and my face as if to make a silent demand. There was no mistaking his intent. With a smile playing on my lips, I tore off a small piece of bread and tossed it to the ground. He eyed it suspiciously at first, then, with a swift motion, claimed his prize. There was something almost regal in the way he devoured the morsel, as if he were a king receiving tribute.
To my delight, the raven did not fly away as I expected. Instead, he settled himself once more at my side, a silent companion in this quiet park, his presence imbuing the moment with an air of enchantment. I found myself musing on the surreal nature of it all—there I was, draped in my wool trench coat, the cool breeze rustling the leaves around me, with a raven as my unlikely companion. It felt as though I had wandered into the pages of a forgotten fairytale, where the boundaries between the ordinary and the magical blur, and one is left wondering if perhaps, just perhaps, the raven might speak.
As I watched him, a thought stirred in the back of my mind—an echo of ancient stories and half-remembere
In that moment, time seemed to stretch, the world narrowed to just the two of us, sharing a meal in a small park in Portree. The raven, with his gleaming feathers and sharp, intelligent gaze, became a symbol of the wild, untamed spirit of Skye itself—a reminder that even in the most familiar of places, there is always a touch of the extraordinary, waiting to be discovered. As I finished my lunch, I felt a quiet contentment, knowing that for a brief moment, I had been part of something rare and wonderful—a fleeting encounter with the mysteries of the natural world, a fairytale come to life.
When the raven finally took to the sky, I watched him until he was no more than a dark speck against the vast expanse of the Highlands. The Morrígan’s messenger, perhaps, or simply a raven hungry for bread—either way, he left me with a sense of connection to the ancient, timeless spirit of this place. And as I walked away, the myth and the moment blended together, leaving me with the comforting thought that, in Skye, the old gods are never far away.
On The Quiraing
I met my clients around 3 in the carpark. I was happy that the rain and wind had held off. They were an American Couple from Florida. Jokes were made about the contrasting weather of Florida and Scotland. They chuckled and told me how they prefer the weather here. That's not the first time someone from Florida has mentioned they'd prefer Scottish weather. It makes me wonder how the weather often is in Florida. I have been there before but I was far too young to take an account.
We spent 3 hours on the hike. While this was a 5 year anniversary shoot, the couple opted to reread their vows on the peaks of the Quiraing. It was quite beautiful. The trails were full of hikers so each time we passed another they congratulated them on their wedding. It just got easier to say "thank you" instead of explaining it was a vowel renewal.
Finally, a much-welcomed surprise awaited us as we descended the trail—we ran into a dear photographer friend of mine. In Scotland, the photography community is a close-knit group, bound by our shared love for capturing the wild beauty of this land. There's a camaraderie among us, a mutual rooting for one another’s success that I find both refreshing and rare.
He was in the midst of photographing an elopement, another couple drawn to the magic of the Quiraing. We exchanged quick hellos, a few words of encouragement, and shared our excitement to see each other's work once the shoots were over. With a brief wave, we returned to our respective clients, each of us carrying on with our shared task of immortalizing love in this timeless landscape.
The Drive Home
We finished our shoot around half past five, the last light of the day casting a soft, golden hue over the Quiraing as we wrapped up. The couple, still basking in the glow of their vow renewal, expressed their gratitude as we exchanged goodbyes. They planned to stay on Skye for a few more days, eager to explore more of the island's rugged beauty. I gladly offered some recommendation
With their thanks still echoing in my ears, I returned to my car and began the long drive home. The road stretched out before me, winding through the Highlands, and I settled in for the five-hour journey ahead. As the sky deepened into twilight, I found solace in familiar tunes, shuffling through the Hamilton soundtrack. The music filled the car, and before I knew it, I was singing along with unabashed enthusiasm. There’s something liberating about being alone on a long drive, with nothing but the open road and a soundtrack that stirs the soul.
I can only imagine what the other drivers thought as they passed me—catching glimpses of me belting out lyrics with all the fervour of a Broadway performer, completely lost in the moment. But I didn’t care. For those hours, the car became my stage, and the vast, empty road my audience. There’s a certain joy in letting go, in allowing yourself to be fully immersed in something as simple as a song, and for a while, I was carried away by the rhythm and the lyrics, the miles slipping by almost unnoticed.
By the time I finally reached home, the night had fully settled in, the stars twinkling faintly through the occasional breaks in the clouds. I was tired, yes, but it was the kind of exhaustion that comes from a day well spent—filled with beauty, connection, and just a touch of magic. And as I turned off the engine and stepped out into the cool night air, I couldn’t help but smile, knowing that I had captured something truly special that day, both for my clients and for myself.
1171549 Link to this entry
Written about Sunday 2024-08-25
Written: (6 days ago)
Written about Sunday 2024-08-25
Written: (6 days ago)
Next in thread: 1171550
One Last Push Through
August! You tempestuous tyrant! How I loathe you! You come each year with your relentless demands, your ceaseless chaos, and leave me utterly spent, a mere shadow of my former self. I am exhausted—no, beyond exhausted! I have been flung to the farthest reaches of Scotland, as though I were nothing more than a leaf caught in a violent storm. The Isles of Skye and Mull, Oban, Glasgow, Loch Awe, Edinburgh—they all blur together in my mind, a whirlwind of landscapes and lovers, of vows exchanged under capricious skies and the echoing strains of bagpipes.
Not since last August have I felt this bone-deep weariness, this sense of being drained of all vitality. Wedding season, with its frenzied pace and endless demands, is drawing to a close, but not without one final surge of madness. It is as though the entire world conspires to wring every last ounce of energy from my being before granting me the sweet relief of rest. Today, I left the comfort of my bothy at 11 and embarked on a five-hour odyssey to the Isle of Skye, that wild and untamed corner of Scotland that never fails to enchant and exhaust in equal measure.
Tomorrow, at the Quiraing, I will meet my final client for this infernal month. The Quiraing, with its otherworldly landscape and dramatic cliffs, will be the backdrop for yet another set of lovers, eager to seal their fate amidst the ancient stones. At least the weather looks promising.
For now, I find solace in my hotel, a small haven in the midst of this tempestuous month. It is not grand, a bit opulent perhaps, but it is enough. The bed is soft, the room warm, and for tonight, that is all I need. In the quiet of this moment, I allow myself to breathe, to let the exhaustion wash over me, knowing that the end is near. And as I close my eyes, I can almost taste the sweetness of the rest that awaits me, just beyond the horizon. Oh, there is also a hotel bar. A venue after my own Scottish heart.
24 August 2024
Let's start the day with another wedding
Ah, August, that most tyrannical of months, when the summer sun seems to mock with its bright, unrelenting glare. To a wedding photographer, August is no gentle overseer, but rather a pitiless taskmaster that demands your every waking breath. The air itself is thick with expectation and the weight of too many vows. This month, this cruel August, has seen me through six weddings, two portrait sessions, and a clandestine engagement, each one a testament to the ceaseless march of time and the ever-turning wheel of fortune. My body is weary, my spirit even more so.
Yet, here I stand, on the precipice of yet another matrimonial affair, camera in hand, heart heavy with the knowledge that the day is long, and the night will offer no reprieve. The horizon, however, glimmers with the promise of rest—or at least, a brief respite. Just two more events lie between me and the end of what is universally acknowledged as the photographer’s most unforgiving season. Do not misunderstand me; September will bring its own demands, and October will see me soaring across the Atlantic to the States for another wedding and the sweet solace of friends. The season of busyness is far from over, but the stormiest waters are, perhaps, behind me.
Today, my destination is Loch Awe, where an English couple will pledge their troth amidst the ancient mists of Bonnie Scotland. How curious it is that the English, too, feel the pull of our wild, untamed lands for their nuptials! There is something in the rugged beauty of this place that calls to the romantic souls of the world, that beckons them to be wed under skies as changeable as love itself.
And so, I go, weary but resolute, to capture yet another fleeting moment, another promise of forever in a world where nothing is certain but the inevitability of change.
Tomorrow, my weary feet will tread the winding roads that lead to the Isle of Skye, a place where the very earth seems to whisper ancient secrets to those who dare to listen. Ah, Skye—what a strange and bewitching corner of Scotland it is! There, the mountains rise like the bones of the earth, jagged and wild, piercing the heavens with a savage beauty that defies description. It is a land where time itself seems to stand still, where the air is thick with the scent of heather and the sound of distant waves crashing against craggy shores.
It is, without doubt, one of my most beloved haunts, a sanctuary where the soul might find solace amidst the chaos of life. There is something about the raw, untamed nature of Skye that resonates deeply within me, calling me back time and again, as if I were bound to it by some invisible thread.
On Monday, I shall once more set foot upon the Quiraing, that otherworldly landscape where the earth has twisted and turned upon itself, creating a labyrinth of rock and shadow. This will be my third pilgrimage there this month alone, each time in the company of a couple who, like so many before them, have crossed oceans to stand beneath Skye's moody skies and declare their love. There is a certain poetry in it, I suppose—these lovers from the States, seeking to bind their fates in a place that feels as eternal as the mountains themselves.
Yet, as much as I revel in the beauty of Skye, I cannot help but offer a silent prayer to the capricious gods of this land. Let the rain hold off, I implore them, just for a day, just long enough for us to capture the fleeting moments of joy and tenderness that these couples have travelled so far to enshrine. For there is nothing so fickle as the weather in this part of the world, where a day that begins in golden sunshine can end in a deluge of rain that soaks you to the bone and washes away even the most steadfast resolve.
But even if the skies do open, I know that there is a certain magic in the rain, too—a reminder that nothing in this life is certain, that even the best-laid plans can be undone by forces beyond our control. And perhaps, in that uncertainty, there is a beauty all its own, a wild, untamed spirit that mirrors the very essence of Skye itself.
I... need a drink
I returned home after today’s wedding, my body aching and my mind whirling from the sheer chaos that had unfolded before me. It was one of those days when the very air seems charged with a kind of electric unpredictabili
The wedding was a frenzy of movement and noise—children darting to and fro, their laughter echoing through the ancient stone walls, while the adults tried, with varying degrees of success, to maintain some semblance of order. Yet, amidst the tumult, there were moments of genuine beauty, those fleeting instants that remind me why I do this work, despite the exhaustion and the madness.
A bright spot in the day was the opportunity to collaborate with two of my favourite wedding vendors. The first, a videographer whose work I deeply admire—though I must confess, it’s not just his talent behind the camera that makes my heart skip a beat. There’s something about the way he moves, the glint in his eye when he catches you looking, that leaves an impression. And then there was the bagpiper, a dear friend who has become something of a fixture in my life, bringing with him not just the haunting strains of his pipes but a warmth and camaraderie that I cherish. We even managed to snap a selfie together, the three of us, capturing a moment of levity amidst the day’s madness.
As the final strains of the bagpipes faded into the evening air and the last of the guests departed, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. The wedding, mercifully, had been only a short drive from home—twenty minutes at most—so I found myself back in my cosy bothy before the night had fully descended. There is something about returning to the solitude of my little retreat after such a day that soothes the soul, as if the quiet walls of my home can absorb the residual chaos and leave me with nothing but a sense of calm.
I ended the day as I often do after a long, hard one—a soak in the bath, the warm water easing the tension from my muscles, followed by a small beer to take the edge off. As I lay there, the steam rising around me, I reflected on the day, on the madness and the beauty, on the moments of laughter and the fleeting glances that linger in the mind. And then, after I had dried off and slipped into something comfortable, I found myself in conversation with a new friend I’ve made on this very site. It’s strange how the world works, isn’t it? How even in the midst of the busiest, most exhausting season, life has a way of introducing new connections, little sparks of light that brighten even the darkest of days.
23 August 2024
Why is the Coffee Creamer Gone
It has become abundantly clear to me that I am in desperate need of more American friends who, on occasion, find themselves traversing the scenic landscapes of Scotland. My reasons, I confess, are not entirely altruistic. You see, Americans, much like myself, possess an ardent love affair with coffee. A delightful ritual, an intoxicating ceremony of sorts, wherein the mere act of brewing a cup can transform the most mundane of mornings into something almost poetic.
Yet, alas, this ritual, so common and cherished across the Atlantic, suffers a cruel fate on these fair shores. For while Scotland offers beauty in abundance, it is woefully deficient in one crucial respect: the sacred art of coffee creamer. The peculiar and delightful concoctions that are readily available in the United States—those silky, flavoured nectars that elevate a simple cup of coffee to a sublime experience—are
Having spent formative years in the States, I became intimately acquainted with this ambrosial delight known as Coffee-mate. Ah, the joy it brings! But here, in Scotland, it is as mythical as a unicorn, as scarce as a sunny day in December. My supply dwindles dangerously, and I find myself at the mercy of Amazon's dismal selection, a most inadequate substitute for the real thing.
Thus, I find myself compelled to issue a plea to any American travellers bound for this misty isle: bring with you the elixir of life, the blueberry Coffee-mate, or any such divine flavour that may be within your reach. For the want of it, I am rendered a mere shadow of my former self, my mornings lacking their customary charm and vitality. I ask not for gold, nor for jewels, but for the simple luxury of a well-creamed cup of coffee. Surely, that is not too much to ask?
Glencoe Here I Come
Today, I find myself preparing for a small yet significant photoshoot, one that promises to be as touching as it is picturesque. An elderly couple, celebrating their 36th year of marriage, is journeying up from England to mark this milestone in the timeless landscape of Scotland. There is something deeply poetic in their choice to commemorate such a lasting union amidst the ancient hills and mist-shrouded glens, where the earth itself seems to whisper tales of enduring love and resilience.
Glencoe, that hauntingly beautiful valley, is practically my backyard, and I know its secrets as well as one might know an old friend. It is a place where the very air is steeped in history, where each rock and tree seems to carry the weight of centuries, yet remains ever eager to play its part in the stories of those who pass through. I have a quartet of favoured spots there, little sanctuaries of beauty where the light falls just so, and the mountains stand like sentinels, watching over those who dare to embrace their wild grandeur.
Among these, there is the famed wee White House, a lone structure that stands defiantly against the elements, much like the love of the couple I am to photograph today. Its whitewashed walls, stark against the rugged landscape, have become an icon, a symbol of both isolation and belonging. How fitting, I think, that this enduring symbol of shelter and solitude should serve as a backdrop for a love that has weathered the storms of life, year after year.
The day promises to be as wet as it is wondrous—this is Scotland, after all, where the rain is as much a part of the landscape as the heather and the hills. But there is a certain charm in that, too. The mist that clings to the mountains, the droplets that glisten like jewels on the grass, they will add a touch of magic to the photographs, a reminder that beauty often blooms in the most unlikely of conditions.
So, with camera in hand and heart full of anticipation, I set out to capture not just images, but memories—momen
50 years
Today, I had the pleasure of working alongside a second shooter, a collaboration that proved to be as harmonious as the scene we were capturing. The day was nothing short of delightful, bathed in the gentle light of a Scottish morning that seemed almost tailor-made for such a tender occasion. Our couple, having reached the remarkable milestone of fifty years of marriage, were a testament to the enduring power of love and companionship.
As we documented their golden anniversary, I was struck by the wisdom they imparted. Their secret to a long and fulfilling marriage, they confided, was grounded in the art of communication. It is a truth that, while simple in theory, is profoundly transformative in practice. They spoke of the importance of acknowledging that one will not always emerge victorious in an argument—an admission that requires a rare and commendable humility. It is not, they suggested, about winning or losing but about finding common ground, even when the journey to that place is fraught with challenge.
Yet, perhaps the most poignant advice they offered was the reminder to laugh. In a world often overshadowed by seriousness and strife, laughter becomes a refuge, a light that can pierce through the darkest clouds. It is in the shared moments of joy and humour that bonds are fortified, and the trials of life become more bearable. Their ability to find amusement in the everyday, to see the lighter side of life, has undoubtedly been a cornerstone of their enduring relationship.
As we moved through the day, capturing candid moments and orchestrating poses amidst the breathtaking backdrop of Glencoe, it was clear that their love was a living testament to these principles. Each glance, each touch, and each shared smile spoke volumes of a bond that has grown deeper and more resilient with the passing years.
The behind-the-sce
In reflecting upon the day, I am reminded of the profound impact that love, communication, and laughter can have on the tapestry of life. As I pack away my equipment and prepare to leave the enchanting realm of Glencoe, I carry with me not just the images of a golden anniversary, but a renewed appreciation for the quiet, steadfast magic that sustains a lifelong partnership.
Social Media Reminded Me I'm Getting Old
My thoughts today are tangled in a peculiar nostalgia, a reminder delivered by the cruel precision of social media. It whispers to me that three years have passed since I embarked on that singular journey—my graduate programme in Florence, the city of art, where every cobblestone seemed steeped in a history more vivid than memory itself.
How strange it is that time, that most indifferent of companions, marks the calendar with such relentless indifference, while we, in our human frailty, ascribe meaning to these silent anniversaries. Three years ago, to the very day, I began what was to be the grand adventure of my life. And, oh, what an adventure it was—one woven from threads of both rapture and despair, a tapestry of experiences both exquisite and excruciating.
Florence! The name itself is a poem, a whispered promise of beauty that transcends the mundane. To walk its streets was to step into a living canvas, where every turn revealed some new masterpiece, every shadow a hint of the sublime. Yet, how quickly the intoxicating allure of the unknown gave way to a different kind of intensity—a relentless tide of stress that swept through my days and nights, leaving little room for anything but the pursuit of perfection.
But such is the nature of true adventure, is it not? The interplay of light and shadow, pleasure and pain, beauty and terror, all bound together in a dance as old as time itself. There were moments when I felt the weight of my ambition pressing down on me like an iron shackle, each task a link in a chain that threatened to bind me to the earth, to crush my spirit beneath its relentless weight. And yet, there were other moments, fleeting and yet eternal, when I was lifted beyond myself, when the world seemed to open up before me in a burst of colour and light, and I knew—I knew—that I was exactly where I was meant to be.
It was in Florence that I discovered the profound joy of kindred spirits, those rare souls who became more than mere acquaintances—
And then, there were the encounters with those who inhabit the rarefied heights of the museum world, figures whose names alone could inspire awe in the hearts of those who revere art as I do. To meet them was to stand in the presence of greatness, to witness firsthand the passion and intellect that have shaped the very field I sought to enter. Their words, their insights, their very presence left an indelible mark on my soul, a reminder that the pursuit of beauty is a noble and necessary endeavour, one that demands both humility and courage.
Three years have passed since then, but the memory is as vivid as if it were yesterday. The stress, the joy, the unimagined adventure—they all linger in the corridors of my mind, like ghosts that refuse to fade, haunting me with their beauty and their terror. And as I sit here now, on the other side of that experience, I cannot help but wonder: was it I who shaped the adventure, or did the adventure shape me?
Perhaps the answer lies somewhere in between, in that liminal space where memory and reality meet, where time loses its meaning and all that remains is the echo of a life lived fully, intensely, and without regret. For that, at least, is the true essence of adventure—the willingness to embrace both the unimaginable stress and the unimaginable joy, to live in the moment with all its chaos and beauty, and to emerge, in the end, transformed.
For the zero of you that read this account, enjoy these few photos from my time there.
22 August 2024
Today is the lull before the tempest, that fleeting pause when the world holds its breath in anticipation of the whirlwind to come. The next three days will see me crisscrossing the wild and untamed beauty of Scotland, as I embark on the final odyssey of this wedding season.
Tomorrow, my journey begins with a drive to Glencoe, where I shall capture the enduring love of a quaint older couple. Theirs is a love story etched in the lines of time, a tale that will be immortalised through my lens. From there, I shall journey southwards to Loch Awe, where Saturday's wedding awaits—a celebration of union beneath the watchful gaze of ancient hills. And then, on Sunday, the road will carry me back to the Isle of Skye, to the Quiraing, where I shall once again seek to ensnare the fleeting beauty of human emotion amidst the brooding landscape.
But today, today is mine. The sun, in a rare act of benevolence, has graced the skies with its presence. My friends have already departed, scattering like leaves on the wind, each to their own adventures. Perhaps I too shall indulge in a wild run through the trails that weave around my bothy, letting the fresh air cleanse my spirit and invigorate my limbs. But not just yet. For now, I shall linger a while longer, savouring the stillness, and the comfort of my coffee, before the storm beckons and I must once again surrender to the call of the road.
Pancakes?
In a delightful departure from my usual musings, I stumbled upon something quite unexpected today—a new recipe that I simply had to try for lunch. Now, we are all familiar with the humble pancake, that comforting staple of the breakfast table. But imagine, if you will, a pancake that not only delights the taste buds but also nourishes the body with an abundance of protein. Yes, a protein pancake that still retains the lightness and flavour of its traditional counterpart, yet satisfies the appetite and fortifies the soul. Such a discovery is nothing short of culinary alchemy.
To think that two of these golden discs contained a staggering 35 grams of protein! It is a revelation that brings a smile to my lips, for it solves a conundrum that has long shadowed my life. What you may not know, dear reader, is that I was once an athlete, my feet swift upon the track in the days of my youth. A runner, to be precise—a creature of speed and stamina. But as a vegetarian, I always found myself grappling with the elusive challenge of meeting my protein needs, a struggle that lingered like an unwelcome guest.
Yet today, this simple recipe has altered the course of that old battle. With each bite, I felt as though I was reclaiming a part of myself, nourishing not only my body but also the memory of the runner I once was. It is strange how something so seemingly small can reignite a spark within, reminding us of who we were and who we might yet become.
And now, as promised, the recipe that has brought such unexpected joy to my day. It is a simple concoction, yet one that carries the potential to transform an ordinary lunch into something quite extraordinary. Here it is:
Recipe:
4 eggs
1 1/2 cups cottage cheese
1 cup flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
Combine these ingredients, mixing until the batter is smooth and free of lumps. Then, fry each pancake on the stove, watching as they puff up and turn a golden brown, their aroma filling the kitchen with the scent of comfort and contentment. This recipe yields about eight pancakes, a veritable bounty if, like me, you find yourself cooking for one.
So yes, you will likely have leftovers—a happy predicament for those of us who live alone. I do encourage you to try them yourself, and when you do, you may find yourself silently thanking me as you savour each bite. But as for me, I think I shall need to give Fionn a call and invite him over to share in this newfound delight. It seems only fitting to spread the joy, to offer a taste of something new and nourishing to a friend.
To Clean or Be a Couch Potato, that is the Question
Today has been an indulgence in the art of idleness, a rare and exquisite pleasure that I seldom allow myself. My hours have drifted away in a haze of reading, baking—astonis
Yet, today I permitted myself to be a creature of leisure, if only because I know all too well what looms on the horizon. This day of restful indulgence is the calm before the storm, a final moment of tranquillity before the relentless whirlwind of this last weekend descends upon me. For those who ply their trade in the world of weddings, August is the cruellest month. It is a time of frenzied activity, when every hour of every day is spoken for, and one's sanity hangs by a thread.
And so, I have taken this day to prepare—not in the usual way, by ticking off tasks and making lists, but by readying my mind and spirit for the onslaught to come. Tomorrow, the madness begins. What we in the industry call a "triple weekend" lies ahead, a merciless gauntlet of three weddings in three days, covering nearly 500 miles of Scottish terrain. It will be a test of endurance, both physical and mental, and yet there is something exhilarating about the challenge.
But today, I am content to indulge in this fleeting respite. Tomorrow, the storm will break, and I shall be swept up in its fury. But for now, I am content to simply be—no business, no deadlines, just the simple pleasures of a good book, a successful bake, and the company of Anthony Hopkins on my screen.
21 August 2024
It is a curious thing, this dance with the sun, an intricate waltz where I am led by its whims, rising and falling in synchrony with the golden orb. How tiresome it can be, this perpetual union! Especially in Scotland, where the sun is a capricious lover—overzeal
In these long summer days, the sun lingers in the sky until nearly midnight, casting its pale light over a land that refuses to slumber. Then, as if driven by some relentless urgency, it reappears before the world has had a chance to fully embrace the darkness, tugging at me to rise with it at the ungodly hour of five. How cruel the fates must be, to bind me so intimately to such a fickle master! And yet, as the seasons turn, I find myself a creature of winter as well, retreating into the warm embrace of slumber as the sun itself seems to retreat from the world. How wonderfully decadent it is to indulge in sleep when the day is barely born and to feel the night's shadows lengthen long before evening truly arrives.
But alas, today is a summer day, and though the warmth is but a distant memory—fled to some southern clime, no doubt—the light is still my ever-present companion. It drags me from my bed, that soft cocoon of dreams, and bids me greet the day. My dear friend, however, is still wrapped in sleep, stretched out on the sofa in my modest living room, oblivious to the world that stirs around her. I tiptoe through the room like a thief in my own home, desperate to reach the kitchen where my salvation lies.
Ah, the sweet nectar of caffeine! How I crave it, how it courses through my veins and brings me back to life. Do I dare confess my dependence on this dark elixir? But of course! There are far worse vices one might indulge in—how dreary life would be without them! At least I have not succumbed to the sordid allure of more dangerous substances. No, I shall cling to my caffeine with a clear conscience, for it is a harmless indulgence in the grand scheme of things. And, after all, what is life without a few indulgences to brighten the day?
The rich, intoxicating aroma of coffee drifts through the air, a siren's call that stirs even the deepest of sleepers. My friend, lulled by its promise, emerges from the cocoon of sleep, shuffling into the kitchen with the languid grace of someone not yet fully awake. There is a certain comfort in this shared ritual, this quiet communion before the day asserts its demands.
I pour the dark brew into two chipped mugs—companion
Our gazes drift to the window, drawn to the world beyond, where the sky is a sullen grey, heavy with rain. The drops patter against the glass in a relentless rhythm, a melancholic lullaby that Scotland knows all too well. Ah, Scotland! A land where the sun is often a stranger, where the rain is a constant companion, and where the beauty of the landscape is matched only by the unpredictabili
We sit in silence for a moment, both knowing that the rain will not relent, that the day will be one of dampness and chill. There is a certain resignation in this, an acceptance of the capriciousness of our northern clime. But there is also a deep-seated love, a fierce loyalty to this land of mist and shadow. For all its gloom, Scotland has a way of getting under your skin, of weaving itself into the very fabric of your being until you cannot imagine living anywhere else.
We exchange a glance, a shared understanding passing between us. The rain, the grey skies, the cool summer—it is all part of the charm, part of the peculiar enchantment that binds us to this place. We may grumble and sigh, but we would not trade it for the world. And so, with the rain as our backdrop, we sip our coffee and prepare to face the day, knowing that Scotland, in all its moody splendour, will greet us with both challenges and quiet moments of beauty.
"Ailis, how is it that you always seem to tumble out of bed with such grace?" my dear friend murmurs, her voice still soft with the remnants of sleep. "You look like an angel, though perhaps one slightly fallen—those dark curls framing your face, those bright green eyes that seem to hold the promise of mischief, even at this unholy hour. I wish I could possess even a fraction of the poise you have, especially when the morning is still so young and cruel."
Her words, laced with envy and affection, hang in the air like the mist that so often blankets these Scottish hills. She sips her coffee with the reverence of a disciple partaking in a sacred rite, as the rain continues its melancholic serenade against the stone walls of the bothy. There is a certain charm in her dishevelment, a wildness that speaks of nights spent under the open sky, where dreams are shaped by the whisper of ancient winds and the soft murmur of distant lochs.
I laugh, a sound that seems to blend with the soft pitter-patter of the rain. "Well, my dear, you might start by not spending a fortnight in the wilds, like some creature out of Scottish myth. It might be helpful in civilising you, bringing you back to the realm of mere mortals," I reply with a teasing glint in my eyes. The truth is, her wildness is part of her charm—a reminder that there is something untameable in all of us, no matter how much we might try to smooth the edges.
She grins at me, her lips curving into a smile that is both knowing and defiant. "Where would be the fun in that?" she retorts, her voice light, though there is a hint of something deeper beneath. It is as if she dances on the edge of two worlds—the orderly and the chaotic, the civilised and the primal. And perhaps that is why we understand each other so well, why our friendship feels as inevitable as the rain that now drapes the landscape in a veil of silver.
Outside, the rain continues its steady beat, a persistent reminder of the wild beauty that surrounds us. Here, in this remote bothy, where the outside world feels a thousand miles away, we are free to be our truest selves—unguard
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A Rainy Day Off in Oban
After packing the last of our things and making sure all was in order, we were once again graced by Fionn's ever-reliable presence. It seems that in the labyrinth of life, there are some who, like knights of old, are destined to come to our rescue time and again. Fionn, with his easy charm and steady hand, drove us to the train station as he so often did. But this time, with a little cunning and perhaps a dash of mischief, I persuaded him to join us on our little adventure. A purchased train ticket and a few well-placed words were all it took to sway him—though truth be told, it was less a battle and more a gentle nudge, as he agreed with the faintest hint of reluctance, a smile already tugging at his lips.
The train ride from Fort William to Oban is not overly long, but just enough to allow for a brief retreat into the comforting world of words. As the scenery unfolded outside the window—lush hills draped in mist, lochs shimmering like silver mirrors under the brooding sky—I took the opportunity to update my journal, capturing the day’s events in ink before they had a chance to slip away into the recesses of memory.
The rain, ever our constant companion, seemed more determined here, as if the heavens had taken particular offense at our journey. But we, ever the optimists, were prepared for its onslaught. Fionn and I, dressed to the nines in wool coats that spoke of old-world sophistication
I realised then, with a smile that was both fond and amused, that I had neglected to introduce Ava properly in my thoughts. She is more than just a friend; she is a force of nature, a ray of wild sunshine that refuses to be dimmed by the dreariness that so often accompanies life in Scotland. She sticks out like a sore thumb between Fionn and me, but how dull the world would be without her vibrant presence! Ava’s irrepressible spirit, her refusal to blend into the background, is what makes her so wonderfully, unapologetical
As the train carried us closer to our destination, I couldn’t help but feel a certain warmth in the midst of the cold and rain. Here we were, three souls on a journey through the wild beauty of Scotland—each so different, yet bound together by a shared sense of adventure and an unspoken understanding that life, in all its unpredictabili
"I can't believe the weather is like this in August. It's worse than Ireland," Fionn remarked, his voice tinged with a blend of disbelief and resignation. He peered out of the rain-streaked window, where the landscape seemed to blur into a watercolour of greens and greys. The train, our steadfast chariot through this soggy wilderness, was drawing ever closer to Oban, and with it came the pressing question of how we would spend the day despite the relentless downpour.
Ava, ever the optimist, brightened at the mention of breakfast. "Cuan Mor sounds perfect," she chimed in, her eyes lighting up with the prospect of warmth and sustenance. The thought of a hearty meal in that cosy haven by the sea was enough to lift our spirits, if only temporarily, from the dreariness outside.
"Yes, let's fortify ourselves with breakfast first," I agreed, nodding towards Fionn, who had already begun to loosen his tie, as if preparing himself for the battle with the elements ahead. "Nothing like a good meal to arm us against the Scottish weather. Besides, Dunollie Castle isn’t going anywhere, and it’ll be all the more mysterious in this fog."
Ava grinned, her enthusiasm undampened by the rain. "It’ll be like exploring the ruins in an old story—windswep
Fionn chuckled, though his smile was laced with a hint of reluctance. "If only the weather could add a bit more ‘mood’ and a bit less ‘soaking wet’ to the atmosphere."
I couldn’t help but laugh at that, imagining us as characters in a novel, trudging through the mist and rain, determined to uncover the secrets of a forgotten castle. There was a certain romance to it all, despite the reality of damp clothes and squelching boots.
As the train began to slow, signalling our imminent arrival in Oban, we gathered our belongings and prepared to disembark. The rain was still falling in a steady sheet, undeterred by our plans or desires, but we were resolved. Cuan Mor awaited us, promising warmth and the comfort of good food, and beyond that, the day stretched out before us like a blank page, ready to be filled with whatever adventures we might find—or create.
With a final glance at each other, we stepped off the train, our spirits bolstered by the camaraderie that had grown stronger with each shared experience. The rain may have been relentless, the weather unseasonably harsh, but it had a way of binding us together, turning our simple day trip into something more—a testament to the enduring power of friendship in the face of life’s little trials.
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What it Means to be Scottish
We spent the day wandering through Oban, letting the town reveal itself to us in layers, like the pages of a well-loved book. The rain was our constant companion, soaking us through and through, but we pressed on, determined to savour every moment of our time here. Dunollie Castle stood tall and proud against the mist, a relic of Scotland’s storied past, its stones whispering secrets of ancient clans and long-forgotten battles. The museum was a treasure trove of history, each artefact a piece of the puzzle that forms the identity of this rugged land.
As we moved through the town, we indulged in the flavours of Oban, sampling local dishes that tasted of the sea and the earth, each bite a connection to the generations who had lived and thrived in this corner of the world. We chatted with locals, who welcomed us with the warmth that only those accustomed to cold climates can offer, and exchanged stories with fellow travellers, each of us drawn here by the same inexplicable pull that Scotland has on the soul.
But amidst the rain and the ruins, the food and the laughter, a question began to form in my mind—what does it truly mean to be Scottish? Is it the landscape, so wild and untamed, that mirrors the fierce independence in the hearts of its people? Is it the history, steeped in both tragedy and triumph, that we carry within us, like a legacy etched into our very bones? Or is it something more, something intangible, that binds us together even when we are far from home?
As evening descended, we found ourselves at the Oban Inn, seeking refuge from the relentless cold. The pub was alive with the hum of voices, the clinking of glasses, and the warmth of bodies huddled together, escaping the chill of the night. It was here, amidst the raucous laughter and the rich aroma of ale, that I felt the pulse of Scotland most keenly—a heartbeat that thrummed beneath the surface, binding us all in its rhythm.
We were seated at a worn wooden table, our coats hung to dry, our cheeks flushed from the warmth of the fire and the company. Fionn, Ava, and I were lost in conversation when, as if by some unspoken agreement, a group of people at the far end of the pub broke into song. The first strains of "O Flower of Scotland" filled the room, and time seemed to slow. It was as if the very air had thickened with emotion, the words of the song wrapping around us like a tartan shawl.
In that magical moment, something stirred deep within us. Without hesitation, we joined in, our voices rising to meet the chorus. Ava's voice, usually so bright and carefree, took on a new depth, filled with a passion that could only come from the heart. Fionn, normally so reserved, sang with a fervour that spoke of a connection to something far greater than himself. Even for an Irishman. And I, swept up in the swell of voices around me, felt a wave of emotion that I could not quite name—a fierce pride, a profound love, and a deep, unshakable sense of belonging.
There we were, the three of us, surrounded by strangers yet feeling more at home than ever, our voices blending with those around us until we were no longer individuals but a part of something larger, something ancient and enduring. The song echoed through the pub, filling every corner with its power, until it seemed that even the walls themselves were vibrating with the strength of our collective spirit.
To be Scottish, I realised, is to carry this spirit within you—to be fiercely proud of who you are, to stand tall in the face of adversity, and to find kinship in the most unexpected of places. It is to understand that Scotland is more than just a place; it is a feeling, a way of being, a connection that transcends time and space. And in that moment, as the final notes of the song hung in the air, I knew that this was what it meant to be Scottish—to belong to a land, a history, and a people who will always stand together, no matter where life’s journey may take them. Now to make it back home to the bothy.
20 August 2024
There comes a moment, even for the most fervent souls, when one longs for respite—a gentle pause in the relentless march of duties. Alas, such luxuries elude me for now. August, that cruelest of months, does not permit the luxury of rest. It is a time when the world of wedding photography is awash with the fevered rush of unions to be captured, consultations to be held, the ceaseless demand to market, to maintain an ever-present allure on social media, to attend to correspondence with the attentiveness of a lover writing a letter, and to sift through the endless tide of images from each carefully curated gallery. The spectre of burnout hovers ominously, its presence almost tangible. Yet, how I rejoice at the prospect of Tuesday, when the whirlwind shall calm, if only slightly, and life might allow a breath of tranquillity.
Alas, today proved to be a most capricious companion, offering anything but the tranquillity I so desired. Beyond the mountain of tasks that clamour for my attention, fate added another layer to my already overburdened plate—a dear friend, visiting for the night. She has returned from a fortnight spent in the wild embrace of the Highlands, her spirit kissed by the crisp air and solitude of that rugged landscape. Naturally, I welcomed her into my modest bothy, offering the comforts of warmth, refreshment, and a brief respite from her wanderings.
It was truly a delight to reconnect, to exchange stories and laughter as though time itself had slowed just for us. Yet, as we spoke, I couldn’t shake the shadow of unfinished work that hovered over me—a dark cloud, ever-present, reminding me of the countless tasks left unattended. The joy of our reunion was tinged with that familiar sense of dread, the knowledge that even the most precious moments must eventually yield to the demands of duty.
It is now nearly eleven in the evening, and at last, I find myself ensconced in the sanctuary of my bed, a book in hand, while my friend slumbers peacefully on the sofa. The house is quiet, save for the gentle rhythm of her breathing, and for a fleeting moment, the world seems to soften around the edges.
Tomorrow, we shall take the train into Oban, that charming little town by the sea, and explore its winding streets once more. It will be my second journey there this week, though this time I shall abstain from the temptations of whisky or any such libations. The memory of the previous indulgence lingers still, a reminder that even the sweetest of pleasures can come at a cost. No, tomorrow shall be a day of clarity and calm—a brief respite before I must once again surrender to the inexorable tide of work that awaits me.
And so, I turn to my book, seeking solace in its pages, even as the weight of unfinished business presses upon my mind. But for now, I shall let it be, if only for a few stolen hours, and lose myself in the quiet beauty of words, as the night stretches on and sleep begins to weave its delicate spell.
I am nearing the final pages of The Picture of Dorian Gray—a tale I have read countless times, each reading revealing new subtleties, like hidden brushstrokes in a painting I thought I knew intimately. Yet, as much as I adore the dark elegance of Wilde’s prose, I find myself wondering if perhaps it is time to venture into new literary territory. The familiarity of Dorian's world, with its opulent decadence and moral decay, is comforting, yes, but there is a certain allure in the unknown, a pull towards stories that might challenge me in ways I’ve yet to imagine.
Perhaps tomorrow, as we wander through Oban, I shall make a stop at a bookshop—a quiet, dusty one, with shelves that creak under the weight of stories waiting to be discovered. I could lose myself there for a while, seeking out something more modern, something that speaks to the present rather than the past. It’s a tempting thought, the idea of a new book, a fresh voice to accompany me through the final days of August’s relentless demands.
And so, with that thought lingering like a promise, I shall allow sleep to take me, the anticipation of tomorrow’s possibilities softening the edges of my weariness.
19 August 2024: The Rain is Back On
The day is draped in a somber cloak of grey, as cold, relentless rain taps against the windows, each drop a melancholic note in nature’s symphony. The encroaching darkness wraps itself around my little bothy in the Highlands, whispering a reminder that the dance of the seasons is well underway. There is a chill inside today, a silent, spectral presence that foretells of winter's imminent arrival. I am reminded of my duty to gather firewood, and enough to see me through the long, unforgiving months that lie ahead.
Scottish winters possess a peculiar magic, one that penetrates not just the skin, but settles deep within the marrow, lingering like an echo of some ancient, forgotten sorrow. I have wandered the world, yet there is nothing quite like the winter here—its grip is otherworldly, almost as if the very soul of the land awakens in the cold, binding the living to the rhythm of the earth. It is no wonder that the ancient rites and the turning of the wheel were inspired by the seasons of this place, where nature itself seems to breathe with a power both wondrous and fearsome.
Yet, with all its beauty, winter here carries the weight of peril, particularly in these remote corners of the Highlands. The threat of being snowed in, of the electricity faltering and leaving one stranded in a world gone white and silent, is ever-present. One must be vigilant, prepared, ensuring that there is always enough food, water, and firewood to outlast the icy grasp of winter. In this solitary wilderness, self-reliance is not just a virtue, but a necessity, for the cold does not forgive those who are unprepared.
But I must not linger too long in the melancholy embrace of winter's approach. Other matters beckon my attention—chie
It seems only yesterday that my family uprooted from Edinburgh and transplanted us to the southern reaches of the States. I was but six years old then, and for the next ten years, I called that place home. How peculiar it is to recall that, as a child, I began to adopt the lilting tones of an American accent—a subtle transformation that did not go unnoticed by my resolutely Scottish parents. They, determined to preserve my connection to the land of my birth, sought the expertise of the town's lone accent specialist.
In that small Southern town, there were no teachers of the Scottish brogue to be found, no tutors to instil the rolling Rs of my heritage. The only option available was an instructor in the refined and measured tones of British RP. My parents, faced with a choice between allowing me to acquire a Southern American drawl or adopting the polished cadences of British Received Pronunciation, chose the latter without hesitation. And so, I was trained in the precise and polished accents of the British upper class, an affectation that has since become my default mode of speech, even to this day.
Now, as I prepare for my journey, I anticipate the warmth of Southern hospitality awaiting me in South Carolina, Georgia, and Tennessee, where I shall visit dear friends and family. But there is more to this adventure, as I shall also spend a week in New Orleans—a city of vibrant contrasts, where the echoes of jazz fill the streets, and the air is thick with a history as rich and complex as the very soil it stands on. It is a place where the past and present dance together in a heady, intoxicating rhythm, much like the weave of accents and experiences that have shaped who I am today.
It amuses me now to think of it—the lengths to which we go to preserve an identity, even one as mutable as an accent. Yet, in that accent, there lies a bridge between two worlds: the rugged beauty of Scotland and the vibrant energy of the American South. Both are part of me, woven together in a tapestry that is, in its own way, as complex and rich as the seasons themselves.
--------------
Back to the Real World
As for the more mundane parts of today, my attention is drawn back to the pressing demands of my work. The beauty of the Highlands, while inspiring, also calls for meticulous preparation. I must ready myself for a portrait session in the rugged hills of Glencoe on Friday evening—a place where the landscape itself seems to breathe with ancient stories and untamed beauty. The dramatic vistas and ever-changing light will no doubt present their own set of challenges, but they are the kind that make the effort worthwhile.
The weekend brings another engagement, this time at a wedding nestled in the serene and mystical setting of Loch Awe. There is something profoundly moving about capturing moments of love and joy against such a majestic backdrop. The loch, with its still waters and surrounding peaks, lends an air of timelessness to the occasion, making it not just a celebration of union but a communion with the very spirit of the place.
But before I can fully immerse myself in these creative pursuits, there is the more prosaic task of managing my ever-growing editing queue. Each photograph is a story waiting to be told, and the process of bringing them to life requires both patience and precision. The backlog is a constant reminder that even in the midst of beauty and artistry, there is a need for discipline and diligence. The work is never truly done, but there is a certain satisfaction in knowing that every hour spent refining an image brings it closer to the vision I hold in my mind.
18 August 2024: The Aftermath of the Night Before
I take immense pride in embodying the very quintessence of decorum, a woman whose poise and grace are the crowning achievements of a life meticulously curated. To maintain such a façade is an art in itself, a delicate balance I have refined with the precision of a master painter. Each gesture, each word, is carefully chosen to uphold the image I have so diligently crafted. And yet, there exists an amber-hued elixir, beguiling and potent, with the peculiar power to unravel this finely woven tapestry. Whisky, that most seductive of spirits, slips into my glass with the stealth of a sorcerer, awakening within me a persona long suppressed—a creature less bound by the strictures of propriety and far more inclined to indulge in the intoxicating allure of abandon.
And so it is that today, I find myself paying dearly for this nocturnal metamorphosis. My head, as heavy as the morning fog upon the moors, pulses with the remnants of last night’s revelry, while my stomach churns with the bitter remnants of overindulgence
But I must not allow myself to be entirely swept away by the present malaise. Instead, let me transport you back to the events that precipitated this morning’s discomfort. Last night was, in a word, exquisite. As the appointed photographer for the occasion and a proud daughter of the Highlands, it was my unrivalled pleasure to capture the essence of a true Scottish wedding. While my usual sphere is one of refined elegance, there are moments when I yearn for the unbridled chaos of a ceilidh, where formality gives way to fervour, and the night unravels in a riot of music, laughter, and spirited dance.
The evening was a veritable kaleidoscope of colour and emotion, each moment more vivid than the last. The bride, resplendent in her gown, and the groom, rugged and radiant in his tartan, embodied the very spirit of Highland romance. And I, through the lens of my camera, preserved it all—the joy, the tears, the fleeting glances of love that spoke volumes. But as the night deepened and the whisky began to flow with reckless abandon, I felt myself irresistibly drawn into the heart of the celebration, casting aside the role of observer for that of participant.
There is a certain enchantment in a ceilidh, a wild, untamed energy that sweeps all who partake into its joyous embrace. So, when my duties as a vendor concluded, I was graciously invited to join in the revelry, and I danced. Oh, how I danced! With each turn, each spirited leap, I felt the constraints of decorum melt away, replaced by a thrilling sense of freedom. And as is custom at a ceilidh, the whisky was flowing, each glass more liberating than the last.
At one particularly memorable moment, I found myself being flung about the room by a Highlander dressed in the very tartan of my own family—Gow, to be precise. It was only later, when the dance had ended and the night began to wane, that I discovered this dashing partner was, in fact, a distant cousin. Such are the perils of dancing in the small, remote villages of the Highlands—one never knows when the exuberance of the ceilidh might lead to a reunion of blood as well as of spirit!
It was a night that may very well have wreaked havoc upon my liver, but oh, how it filled my soul with a warmth that no elixir could ever rival. The memories of that evening, like the most delicate of perfumes, linger in the air, a heady mix of laughter, whisky, and the wild abandon of the ceilidh. Even now, as I sit here nursing the aftereffects of my indulgence, I cannot help but smile at the thought of it all—the music, the dance, the unexpected familial ties discovered in the midst of joyous chaos.
But as with all such nights of excess, the time comes to face the sobering light of day. My body, craving reprieve, demands a moment of clarity before I embark on the journey back up north. The train awaits, ready to carry me away from the revelry and return me to the solace of the Highlands, where my little bothy stands nestled among the hills that have been my refuge these past months.
As the train rumbles northward, I know that the journey ahead will be one of quiet reflection. The past evening, with it's whirlwind of activity and emotion, have left me longing for the peace and solitude of my bothy. There, amidst the heather and the bracken, I shall find the space to breathe, to think, and perhaps to recover from the delightful excesses of last night.
The Highlands have a way of restoring the soul, of reminding one of the simple joys of existence. The brisk wind on my face, the scent of pine in the air, the distant call of a lone bird—these are the things that ground me, that bring me back to myself after the whirlwind of life’s more decadent moments.
So, as I settle into my seat, the train’s gentle sway lulling me into a state of quiet contemplation, I look forward to the days ahead. To long walks in the hills, to evenings by the fire in my little bothy, and to the serenity that comes from being alone with one’s thoughts. The night may have been one of indulgence, but now, it is time for restoration, for the soothing balm of the Highlands to work its magic.
——————————————
Back to the highlands
As I stepped off the train and into the cool air of Fort William, the familiar sight of Fionn waiting near the platform brought a wave of relief. His tall, sturdy frame stood out among the few others milling about, and his presence, solid and dependable as ever, was exactly what I needed after the whirlwind of last night. Fionn, though a stranger to these Highlands, had become a trusted friend in this remote part of the world, and his easy smile as he caught sight of me was like a balm for my weary soul.
“Welcome back,” he said, his voice laced with that unmistakable Irish lilt as he moved forward to take the heavier of my bags. “I trust the festivities were worth the pain you’re in now?”
“Oh, the festivities were grand,” I replied with a rueful smile, “but the aftermath? Less so.” I handed over my luggage, grateful for his help as we made our way to the car.
Once we reached his vehicle, Fionn opened the passenger door for me with a gentlemanly flourish. As I settled into the seat, he reached into the back and produced a canned bottle, handing it to me with a grin that was both knowing and sympathetic. “I figured your true Scottish self would come out last night. Thought you’d need something for the hangover. Those always help me when I’ve gone a bit too hard the night before.”
I looked at the bottle in my hand—a Huel Daily A-Z vitamin drink, caffeinated for that extra boost—and couldn’t help but laugh. “You know me too well already, Fionn,” I said, cracking the cap of the can and taking a tentative sip. The cool, slightly sweet liquid was a welcome change from the whisky that had dominated my palate the night before. “This is just what I needed.”
Fionn chuckled as he started the car and pulled out onto the road. “There’s nothing like a good hangover remedy, even if it comes in the form of a fancy modern drink. You’ll be right as rain in no time.”
The drive northward was quiet, save for the low hum of the engine and the occasional chirp of birds in the distance. The landscape outside the window was as breathtaking as ever, the rugged peaks and deep valleys bathed in the soft light of the early evening. As the gentle curves of the road carried us deeper into the Highlands, I felt the tension begin to melt away, replaced by the familiar comfort of the hills I had come to love.
Fionn, sensing my need for quiet, let the silence linger, though his presence was a constant reassurance. There was something uniquely soothing about his company, the way he understood without needing to be told, the way he offered support without making a fuss. We shared a bond, both of us outsiders in this ancient land, I, a native born to Edinburgh but living abroad most my life, and he, a native to county Clare Ireland, yet somehow more at home here than anywhere else.
As we drove, I sipped on the drink, feeling the caffeine and vitamins begin to work their magic, slowly bringing me back to life. By the time we reached the outskirts of the village, I was feeling more like myself, the fog in my head lifting as we neared the place I had come to call home.
“Thanks for this,” I said, holding up the now half-empty bottle. “And for the lift. It’s good to know I’ve got someone looking out for me up here.”
Fionn glanced over with a smile. “We look out for our own, don’t we? Besides, what’s a neighbour for if not to help you recover from a proper Scottish wedding?”
I grinned, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the drink in my hand. “Aye, that we do.”
As we pulled into the village, the familiar sights of the little community greeted me—small stone cottages, the tiny local pub, and the rolling hills that stretched out beyond, untouched and wild. Fionn parked the car outside my bothy, and I gathered my things, feeling an immense sense of gratitude for this place and the people in it.
Before I got out, I turned to Fionn, a thought occurring to me. “You know, you should come by later this week. I’ll cook us something, and we can trade stories—Highla
His eyes lit up at the suggestion. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll bring the whisky this time—just a wee dram, of course.”
“Of course,” I agreed with a laugh, knowing full well that with Fionn, a ‘wee dram’ could mean anything. But that was part of the charm, part of the reason I was glad to have found a friend in this remote corner of the world.
With a final wave, I stepped out of the car, my feet crunching on the path that led to my bothy. As I watched Fionn drive off, I took a deep breath, the crisp Highland air filling my lungs and clearing the last remnants of the night before. It was good to be back, good to return to the quiet, steady rhythm of life in the Highlands. And with friends like Fionn, I knew that even in this isolated place, I was never truly alone.
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.
---------
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
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.
16 August 2024
Once more, Elvis presides as my companion, his voice a rich, velvety thread weaving through the fabric of my day. The vinyl records, their grooves etched with the soulful cadence of his songs, spin beneath the needle with a satisfying crackle, a symphony of nostalgia that would surely cause any true Elvis aficionado to blush with envy. His music fills the air, a warm, resonant balm against the relentless downpour outside. The rain, far heavier than yesterday's gentle drizzle, drums incessantly against the windows, its rhythm steady and unyielding. The birds, those usual choristers of the Highlands, have fallen silent, their songs swallowed by the sombre grey of the storm.
Today has been one of quiet industry, my time divided between the ceaseless flow of emails and the meticulous task of editing, each image a piece of art waiting to emerge from the digital canvas. There is a certain satisfaction in this work, a meditative quality to the process that allows my mind to wander, even as my hands remain engaged. Yet, as the hours slip by, I am acutely aware of the preparations that must be made for tomorrow’s journey. The evening train will carry me to Oban, a town cradled by the sea and steeped in history, where I have been commissioned to photograph a wedding reception. The thought of it stirs a quiet excitement within me—a chance to capture the fleeting beauty of love, framed against the rugged charm of the Scottish coast.
The bride and groom, in a gesture of warm hospitality, have extended an invitation for me to stay the night and partake in the ceilidh that will follow. It has been many years since I last attended a proper ceilidh, that joyous celebration of music and dance that is so intrinsic to our culture. The prospect fills me with anticipation, a rekindling of fond memories long buried beneath the sands of time. I even found myself rummaging through the recesses of my wardrobe to unearth a pair of proper dance shoes, their leather softened by years of use but still as sturdy as ever.
I must have been in my early twenties, full of the carefree vigour that youth affords. It was another traditional wedding, much like the one I am to attend tomorrow, where the evening air was thick with the mingling scents of whisky and heather, and the laughter of old friends echoed through the hall. I remember finding myself swept into the arms of a young man clad in a rugged kilt, his presence as commanding as the Highlands themselves. His hands were firm and sure as he led me into the Gay Gordons, the familiar steps falling into place as if we had rehearsed them a hundred times before.
He spun me with such enthusiasm that the world became a blur of tartan and smiles, the room spinning faster than my feet could keep up. There was a wildness to his movements, a reckless abandon that sent us both careening around the dance floor, our laughter mingling with the music in a dizzying crescendo. He twirled me a little too vigorously, and I felt my balance falter, my feet barely grazing the ground as I was pulled into his orbit. But that, of course, is the essence of a true ceilidh—a dance that leaves you breathless, your heart pounding not just from the exertion but from the sheer joy of it all.
By the time the music faded and we stumbled to a halt, I was breathless, my cheeks flushed with exertion and exhilaration. I could already feel the telltale twinge of what would soon become a spectacular bruise on my shin, a mark of honour from the night’s revelries. It isn’t a true ceilidh if you don’t leave with a few bruises, a small price to pay for the unbridled joy of the dance. As I think back on that night, I find myself smiling at the memory—the aching muscles, the sore feet, the way we all staggered out into the cool night air, still laughing, still caught in the rhythm of the music that had long since ended.
I often find myself wondering what became of that boy, the one who spun me through the night with such reckless joy. Now, in my late twenties, the details of that evening have softened around the edges, like a well-loved photograph faded by time. His name eludes me, slipping through the grasp of memory like mist on a Highland morning. Yet, I hold on to the hope that wherever he is, he is still enjoying a ceilidh or two this season, his laughter mingling with the music as it once did with mine. Perhaps he, too, thinks back on our one night together with a smile, remembering the wild energy of our dance, the way we were carried away by the music and the moment.
As for tomorrow, I will step into the festivities with anticipation, ready to be swept up once more in the whirl of kilts and the lively strains of the fiddle. Yet, I shall exercise a measure of restraint, ensuring that the whisky does not flow too freely. It would be a shame to lose myself entirely to the night, only to wake the next morning with the faces and names of those I met blurred and indistinct, like a dream half-remembere
For it is not just the dance that I cherish, but the stories that linger in its wake—the faces, the conversations, the shared glances that might otherwise be lost to the passage of time. And so, tomorrow, I will dance and drink and laugh, but I will also remember, carefully storing away each memory to be woven into the tapestry of these pages.
In other news, I find myself in the curious position of having completed my work for the day, only to be met with a discovery that borders on the tragic—I am nearly out of whisky. The very notion seems to mock the sanctity of a Scottish home, where such an oversight is nothing short of sacrilege. What kind of abode, nestled within the mists of the Highlands, would allow its whisky supply to dwindle so perilously close to nothing? The thought alone is enough to make one shudder.
I completed my tasks with a sense of quiet satisfaction, the kind that comes only from a day well-spent, and I had looked forward to the small ritual that signals the day’s end: a glass of whisky, its rich amber glow catching the firelight as it swirls in the glass, a liquid sunset held captive by crystal. Yet, as I reached for the bottle, a most unsettling truth revealed itself—the level had sunk dangerously low, a scant few drops remaining to fend off the encroaching night.
What manner of home is this, where the hearth is warm, the air thick with the scent of peat, yet the glass is empty of its rightful fill? It is as if a violin were missing its strings, a canvas left untouched by paint. The whisky bottle stands there, a solemn witness to my negligence, the glass growing ever lighter with each pour, each sip a reminder of what little remains.
And so, with a mix of resignation and bemusement, I shall pour what is left and savour it as one might savour the last rose of summer, knowing it is the final bloom before the frost. I shall sit by the fire, the night pressing close against the windows, and reflect on the irony of it all—this Scottish home, so full of life and warmth, yet perilously close to being without the very essence of its identity. Tomorrow, perhaps, I shall rectify this grievous error, but tonight, I will make do with what remains, a reminder that even in the land of whisky, nothing is ever truly certain.
A' Chiad Solas
Anns a’ chiad solas,
tha na h-àrdan na h-Alba a’ leagail,
air a’ bhunait sheòmar mòr,
is a’ ghrian a’ sgapadh gu socair
trìm na h-ùine,
a’ cur glan air a’ ghlas,
a’ snìomh leis an t-sìth.
Gach creag, gach coille,
air a’ mhullach,
a’ freagairt do na gàirdeanan a’ fàs,
bho chionn ghoirid agus fìor-thoileach
an fhìrinn a’ briseadh às an dorchadas
mar a h-uile nì eile a’ fuireach
ann an raon fada,
far nach eil ach an dòchas.
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The First Light
In the first light,
the Scottish highlands stretch out,
across the vast expanse,
the sun spreading gently
through time,
clearing the grey,
moving with tranquility.
Every crag, every forest,
on the ridge,
responds to the growing embrace,
with a recent and true joy,
truth breaking from darkness
as everything else remains
in a distant realm,
where only hope endures.
15 August 2024
There is an exquisite strangeness in returning to this secluded corner of the digital ether, a space as secretive and intimate as the whispered confessions of a lover. Though the vast corridors of the internet echo with the silent absence of others, I find a peculiar comfort in this solitude, where my thoughts might unfurl without restraint, like the delicate petals of some rare, nocturnal bloom. How curious it is that this sanctuary should appear to me once more, a forgotten portal to a world where my musings might find resonance with kindred spirits. It ebbs and flows like the tides, this place, a virtual atelier where I once penned the fervent reflections of my youth. Now, with the weight of years upon my brow, I seek to rekindle that flame, to inscribe anew my thoughts, as one might trace the lines of an old, beloved manuscript, knowing that time will inevitably turn these words to dust.
More than a decade has passed since I last dwelt here, and in that span, life has unfurled in ways both expected and marvellously strange. I find myself, now, in the most curious of predicaments—a
At present, I reside in a tiny bothy nestled among the wild, untamed beauty of the Scottish Highlands. The bothy, once a humble shelter, has been transformed by the grace of modernity, now pulsing with the gentle hum of electricity, the steady flow of water, and the invisible threads of wifi—a trinity of conveniences for which I am profoundly grateful. Here, in this remote haven, I have embarked upon an artist residency, a sojourn that allows me to wrestle with the raw forces of nature that dominate this landscape, channeling them into my work. The Highlands, with their tempestuous energy, provide the perfect canvas for the evolution of my artistic vision—a vision that seeks to transcend the mere documentation of others' joy and reach into the sublime, the ineffable.
Today was spent in the quiet company of my own thoughts, the task of editing photographs occupying the better part of my hours. The world outside my window was alive with the songs of birds, their melodies a gentle counterpoint to the crackling warmth of an old record player, which spun the hauntingly familiar tunes of Elvis Presley. It was a day that unfolded like the turning of a page in a beloved novel, each moment tinged with a sense of nostalgia, yet brimming with the promise of new beginnings.
Before the Scottish summer sun dipped behind the craggy peaks of the mountains, casting its final golden rays upon the heather-clad hills, I felt an irresistible urge to venture outside. The day had been one of persistent rain, a fine, misty drizzle that had soaked the earth until it became a living sponge beneath my boots. Each step I took was met with the soft resistance of the sodden ground, releasing the rich, heady scent of damp earth and ancient peat into the cool evening air. It was a scent that seemed to rise from the very heart of the land, a perfume distilled by time and nature’s alchemy.
I made my way towards the nearest town, a place that clung to the landscape like a secret whispered between the hills, to procure a few essential items—a task mundane in its nature, yet imbued with a quiet significance in this remote corner of the world. The walk was solitary, the only sounds the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze and the soft, rhythmic patter of water droplets falling from the trees. The path, a narrow ribbon of earth, wound through the wild beauty of the Highlands, where the landscape seemed to breathe with an ancient, untamed vitality.
As I approached the outskirts of the town, I encountered a gentleman whom I had seen on several occasions before, a figure as much a part of the landscape as the gnarled oaks or the brooding mountains. There was a ruggedness about him, a weathered quality that spoke of a life lived in harmony with the harsh, unforgiving terrain. His accent, thick and melodic, rolled off his tongue like the Gaelic verses of old, a stark contrast to my own softer speech. We exchanged pleasantries, our conversation turning, as it so often does in these parts, to the weather—a subject as unpredictable and capricious as the Highlands themselves. His words carried the weight of the land, shaped by the winds and rains that had carved these mountains, and I found a curious comfort in the cadence of his speech, as if in his voice I could hear the very soul of this wild and beautiful place.
Once I returned to the warmth of my humble abode, the gathering dusk casting long shadows upon the walls, I set about the comforting ritual of brewing myself a cup of coffee. Though I was born in these very lands, the years I spent wandering beyond the borders of my homeland seem to have severed my once steadfast allegiance to tea (and my accent). Instead, I found myself irresistibly drawn to the dark allure of coffee, a passion that had blossomed during my first sojourn to Italy, where an old Moka pot, now well-worn and cherished, became a trusted companion. I filled it with real espresso, rich and fragrant, and set it to boil on the stove, the kitchen soon filling with the warm, intoxicating scent that I have come to associate with moments of quiet reflection.
The coffee, once brewed, was tempered with a splash of milk and a spoonful of brown sugar, its sweetness offering a gentle counterpoint to the robust bitterness of the espresso. With cup in hand, I settled into the embrace of my sofa, the night drawing close around me like a familiar, comforting cloak. The late hour held no power over me; caffeine, it seems, is a stimulant that fails to disturb the tranquil waters of my mind. My brother, in his ever-amusing candour, attributes this to a touch of ADHD—a suspicion that, though never confirmed, has a certain poetic resonance. I have never sought a diagnosis, preferring instead to think of it as one of those quirks that lends character to my existence.
As I sipped the rich brew, I reached for an old favourite, The Picture of Dorian Gray by the incomparable Oscar Wilde, whose prose dances through my thoughts like the shadows cast by a flickering flame. Wilde, whose wit and wisdom have long inspired my own meandering attempts at writing, felt like the perfect companion for such a night. There is something about his work—its elegance, its decadence, its piercing insight into the human soul—that resonates deeply with me, as if his words were woven from the very fabric of my own thoughts. And so, with the fire of caffeine warming my veins and Wilde’s exquisite prose to guide me, I allowed myself to drift into the labyrinth of his imagination, where beauty and darkness entwine in a dance as old as time itself.
First Entry
I used to have an account on this website during the tumultuous days of my angsty high school years. While I don't necessarily long for those strange and awkward times, I do cherish the friendships I formed here and the space it provided to create, share, and journal my thoughts. There might be a touch of nostalgia creeping in, but I’m genuinely pleased to have been reminded of this little corner of the internet and to have found my way back to it.
This space feels like a hidden sanctuary, tucked away in the quiet corners of the vast digital landscape. It's as if I've stepped into an old, beloved attic, where the dust dances in the shafts of sunlight and every creak of the floorboards holds a memory. The walls here are lined with the echoes of past conversations, the whispers of shared secrets, and the warmth of friendships that defied distance and time. There’s a comforting anonymity here, like slipping on a well-worn cloak that allows me to blend into the background, yet still be a part of something meaningful. It’s a place where the weight of the everyday melts away, and in its place, a sense of possibility blooms—a place to sprinkle a little magic, dream freely, and let creativity flow like a river undisturbed by the rush of the outside world.
So, here's to writing more journal entries, forging new friendships, and embarking on countless adventures. Slàinte Mhath! Here's to good health and even better times ahead.