Sometimes when I am out looking for a scene to photograph, I wonder what I must look like to anyone watching. If they are of a certain age, they would probably think they were witnessing a lost episode of Monty Python's Flying Circus. Perhaps I should explain.
Photography literally means “drawing with light” in Latin. Light is everything in photography. It shapes the scene, creates mood, reveals texture, and changes constantly throughout the day depending on where the sun is and what happens to be between it and your subject.
I have probably witnessed this process more than 20,900 times in my life, excluding the years when I spent most of my time lying on my back with a dummy in my mouth. There was also that one once that time I drank so much (for me) I actually lost a few days!, but we will move swiftly on from that.
Anyway, back to the story.
My recent trip to the Isle of Skye gave me the chance to photograph the Old Man of Storr. This iconic rock formation is on almost every photographer’s bucket list when visiting the island. Unfortunately for me, it is very much a sunrise shot. Sitting on the eastern side of the island, it catches the golden morning light beautifully, especially when the conditions are right for that classic split lighting photographers are always banging on about. The sort of light that adds contrast and tricks a flat photograph into looking three dimensional.
For that reason, I found myself trudging up the mountain before sunrise towards a viewpoint known as the Photographer’s Table, one of the best vantage points for the Old Man. It was more of a slog than usual because I was not feeling particularly well. Later that morning I would discover that I had gifted myself a fairly impressive case of food poisoning, though thankfully the full performance did not begin until I was safely back at the cottage.
When I arrived, it was still dark. I set up my tripod and waited for the sunrise to provide the all important light. At first, I was completely alone.
“Am I even in the right place?”
Eventually, more people began making their way towards the table. Soon there were around fifteen of us standing there in silence, most armed with cameras and enough outdoor clothing to survive a small ice age. One enthusiastic gentleman decided to record a video for his YouTube channel. I think I may have accidentally sabotaged it because every time he spoke to the camera, I assumed he was talking to me and answered him.
“Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Yes, mate, absolutely stunning.”
“And the light changes so quickly.”
“It really does.”
I can only apologise if I now feature heavily in the background of his vlog.
As often happens with landscape photography, just as the sun started to rise, a thick bank of cloud rolled in along the horizon and blocked the very light we had all climbed up there to photograph. At that point you simply work with what you have. Sometimes the image never leaves your computer, but at least you captured the moment.
As the minutes passed, I found myself constantly glancing over my shoulder at the growing wall of cloud, watching it like an enemy advancing across the battlefield and personally denying me the photograph I had imagined.
Then suddenly it happened.
The cloud bank split open and light poured through onto the Isle of Raasay. Instantly, every photographer on the ridge swung around ninety degrees like a synchronised military exercise, cameras firing furiously at the unfolding panorama. Somewhere in the chaos, I managed to ruin the YouTube video again.
To be fair, he did keep saying things that sounded conversational.
The clouds swirled and shifted constantly across the landscape. And yes, the Old Man eventually had its moment too. For a few fleeting seconds, enough light struck the rock formation to make the scene come alive.
One and a half hours after sunrise, I decided I had seen the best of the light and started the walk back down. Not a moment too soon, as my stomach was already preparing its official complaint.
Now, when I look back at those two photographs, I smile at the adventure wrapped up inside them. Hundreds of frames were taken that morning, yet only two made it to print.
That is the funny thing about photography. Every image carries a story. Some are clinical and precise. Others are tangled bundles of emotion, exhaustion, luck, weather, missed opportunities, and badly timed conversations with unsuspecting YouTubers.