Red hot Iceland.

I’ve got to be honest, I don’t do holidays. I’ve tried. I’ve really tried. But no. If I’m not taking pictures there’s a good chance I shouldn’t be there in the first place. And so off to Iceland on holiday with my (tolerant) wife Amanda and my (not so tolerant) son Sam. And my camera.

Initially austere, even foreboding, Iceland quickly gets under your skin and casts its almost mythical spell. Forget any media hype about volcanoes going off (I’m proud to say that I can in fact pronounce the “E” word!), this is a big place with big skies and big potential.

Being a holiday we decided to restrict our travel to the south of the island taking in the geological icons of Reynisdrangar and the suite of waterfalls including Seljalandsfoss and Skogafoss with its conveniently located fulmar colony. Further east Jokulsarlon lagoon is a must-see and is incongruous amidst the flat featureless coastal plains which skirt the Vatnajokull Glacier, Europe’s largest chunk of glacial ice.

OK my pictures are no better than what has been done before (a few more on the Northshots facebook page by the way) but for once, I’m not that bothered. Iceland is an experience. I can’t wait to return next year.

And just to prove I can almost do holidays, here’s Amanda at Iceland’s hottest tourist spot, The Blue Lagoon. In fairness it was a lot less touristy than I imagined and the ice creams are something else. I didn’t think it quite fair to inflict the locals with the sight of my ageing flesh but Amanda was less altruistic!


More than just a bog…a headache.

Working up in the Flow country of northern Scotland recently, I was reminded why celebrated landscape photographers in say, Estonia or The Netherlands, are pretty thin on the ground. Capturing the essence of very flat landscapes is damned difficult. And along with 2020VISION colleagues Lorne & Fergus Gill, Rob Jordan and Mark Hamblin, I was aiming to capture more of ‘the essence’ of this wild place; to tell the story of why this is ‘More than just a bog.’

Basic ingredients: flat, wet ground and big skies – none of the foreground lochs and boulder-strewn moorlands of the classic Highland landscape; no rushing burns or mountain backdrops. In fact stripped of most of the usual contributory components, my head was sore from the constant scratching.

But work hard – and in this case, work together – and the story starts to unfold. Reviewing my initial images, I was disappointed but having secured several timelapse sequences, and knowing what was coming from the rest of the team, it all started to take shape.

This massive area of blanket bog – the most expansive of its kind anywhere – has a story to tell but it’s a story hidden in the layers of carbon-locking peat that make up its very existence. Those layers of peat draw on centuries of accumulated decaying vegetation – it’s an historical story. Yet the significance of peat bog as a carbon store is only just coming to the fore and it’s the future more than the past, that this wild place will influence. Photographically it’s not easy but the reasons for protecting it are manifest.


An engine without oil?

I’ve recently read two very interesting pieces – the first specifically about wolves; the second, a book about the impact of predators on global ecosystems.

A friend of mine sent me a very well pitched report he’d written following a visit to Norway to follow a hugely controversial wolf hunt. In it he describes both extreme hatred and fear for this most symbolic of animals, amidst a rural community that whilst in the minority in terms of national feelings towards wolves, are nevertheless vocal and committed. My friend is himself an experienced game manager so knows about Scottish wildlife politics, but even he says: “I have never experienced such an atmosphere. For many there, an evil had been cleansed from the valley.” This following the shooting of a large male wolf.

Another friend sent me a book (which I would heartily recommend) called Where the wild things were by William Stolzenburg. In it Stolzenburg documents scientific research not into the impact of large carnivores as such, but the ecological chaos found in their absence. Stolzenburg, an American wildlife journalist, offers a convincing science-based argument that alpha predators are the primary regulators of the world’s ecosystems and that their removal, far from being a good thing for unburdened prey, provides the building blocks for long-term ecological decline. Space doesn’t allow for examples – buy the book and listen to the penny dropping. It’s compelling stuff.

I’m often asked about my feelings towards wolves and whether I think they should be returned to Scotland. It’s far from a black and white issue, but it really comes down to whether you answer the question as a rural economist, or as an ecologist. The wolf hunt in Norway underlines a seemingly unbridgeable gulf between prioritising traditional rural practice, and a new and increasingly popular paradigm based on ecosystem health. Like my friend who followed the Norwegian hunt, it’s tough when you can see both sides, and I can. The only caveat to me having the fence well and truly wedged in my nether regions with one foot either side of it, is that if I look 100 years hence, I sometimes wonder whether we will ultimately pay the price of an ecological engine running without oil.


The (very) Wild West.

Any photographer visiting Scotland’s Western Isles will set off with two surefire expectations: rain and wind. They’ll also have in the back of their mind a nugget of hope: exciting light. Of course the latter is largely dictated by the former. It is the constant stream of Atlantic weather fronts which bombard these low-lying islands, that give rise to some of the most dynamic light anywhere.

And so it was with expectation and hope in mind (plus a decent set of waterproofs) that I recently set off for Lewis, Harris and North Uist (in that order). It had been 10 long years since I last visited the Outer Hebrides and apart from re-acquainting myself with some favoured sites, I was charged with the task of capturing the essence of the Hebridean coastline for the 2020VISION project. Now the deal is quite simple in these remote islands: wait for long enough (normally in horizontal sleet) and you’ll get good light. And so I did.

It was windy, in fact at times it was extremely windy and of course it did rain. But between the showers, the light at times was sublime. It’s not always a pretty place; it’s not always comfortable. But when it’s good, it’s very, very good.

And now for the capitalist sting in the tail: did I mention we’re running a tour to the Hebs in 2012? No? Well I’m mentioning it now! If you’d like to join me, view the tour here.


Juggling the kitchenware.

Plate-spinning is a clever thing. When done well it looks easy. But it’s not just a question of calculating speed and angles, it’s the ability to focus intently on several events running simultaneously. I plate spin every day and every day there is more ceramic set in motion and consequently more potential for a major calamity.

It’s been a hugely busy period with the (almost) completion of the Caledonia book, researching and designing new photo-tours, commissioning a major web site update and coordinating the not insignificant 2020VISION project. Oh, and trying to make the most of the fantastic weather with my camera!

So what’s my point? Well the other day I was checking some of our photo-tour brochures and I came across our Career Counselling service ( I say ‘our’; it was designed and is delivered by Niall Benvie) and was wondering what sort of advice we should offer to the aspiring photographer. Well certainly dedication; without doubt resolve, and perhaps the ability to accept rejection…repeatedly. But perhaps more than anything – and this doesn’t just apply to nature photography – we need to learn to plate spin; to keep lots of different facets of our lives on the boil. You need to be good at different things – and all at the same time. I admire great plate spinners and have to admit to a bit of the green-eyed monster as I don’t do it nearly as well as many. I have long concluded however, that successful (and I’m never quite sure how that is defined) nature photography has got less and less to do with your ability behind the camera. So don’t be tempted to put all your eggs in that particular basket…or on that plate. Have to be off now – a bit of a mess to sweep up off the kitchen floor.


When too much is not enough.

Oh god it’s going to be misty again. Here we go. Know what you want…know what you want…Ok, Ok, I’ve perhaps over-played this a wee bit, I’ll move on. But I can’t because it was misty again this morning – not in the place where I wanted it, but elsewhere. I say mist, it wasn’t really mist, more of a fog and there’s a thin line between the two. Mist dictates a high viewpoint overlooking a big landscape, fog beckons you towards a more intimate perspective. So what to do? Where to go? Too much mist basically means fog. And too much fog means no pictures.

For crying out loud Cairns, stop rattling on. An hour in, the sun is up and OK it’s not perfect(!!!) but Loch Garten is flat-calm, the rasping song of the goldeneye reverberates through the forest and the distant bubbling of black grouse makes it, well, bloody perfect actually. What am I getting so wound up about? Really?


Know what you want.

Picture the scene. The forecast for the morning is perfect and I have three or four  locations that I really want to nail this month – all in the same conditions. Which do I go for? What will work best? Location A or location B? For me these are the ingredients for a restless night riddled with anxiety. It’s the fear of failure you see; it’s a disease and I’ve been suffering from it for years.

In my mind, time has become so precious that every photographic foray must count; I cannot invest time out of the office without a productive return. This leads to a self-inflicted pressure that not only deprives me of sleep, but poisons what little creativity I can muster at five in the morning. Moreover, it lessens the enjoyment of the photographic experience – and that’s REALLY serious.

So the day dawns, I’m out of bed and turning on the car’s engine. But where am I heading – location A or B (and even C is starting to wager in with a good case)? Know what you want. Know what you want. I say it to myself over and over. I’m actually saying it out loud. Know what you want and stick with it. If you fail, look upon it as valuable research which will help your next attempt. I stick with location A and it pays off.

The fear of failure is treatable. I’m not completely cured but I’m starting to enjoy the rehabilitation process.


Smooth chin syndrome.

Colleague Niall Benvie made me chuckle with his ‘Tall Poppy Syndrome’ blog post recently. Once you get to grips with Niall’s skewed thinking (and I’m not sure I ever will), this particular post is a satirical poke at the Scottish psyche and its unwillingness to tolerate anyone who gets ‘too big for their boots’ or advocates innovative thinking.

Niall is Scottish by birth and can say such things without fear of a dawn raid from the Political Correctness Police. I was born south of the border and would suggest that such a trait is not confined to native Scots. Conservatism is a British thing, something we’re comfortable with. Innovation makes us nervous. Innovators are mavericks intent on upsetting the status quo; hellbent on making a name for themselves; obvious exploiters and out for their own ends. Like the over-ambitious poppy, they need trimming back.

Now, you might detect a raw nerve here and yes, hands up, I’m a bit pissed off. Why? Well because I’ve met many people (from within the conservation community) who don’t like tall poppies. They rub their chin long and hard and shake their heads. “It can’t be done.” “It’s not possible.””It’ll never work.” These chin-rubbers are often at the forefront of conservation policy making and in my humble view, forget one thing: one thing that was highlighted in a superb report called Branding Biodiversity. That is that for the vast majority of people in this country, nature conservation is a very long way down their priority list and if you want to address that, you need to tap into their value system. “People aren’t rational, they’re emotional” says the report. Quite so.

For my money then, anyone who puts their head above the parapet, tries something different, seeks to touch people on an emotional level, strives to be a tall poppy – they deserve encouragement, investment. They’re not mavericks, they’re heroes. We can sit and rub our chins as much as we like but in the meantime, we’re failing as a society to protect our most valuable asset.


Creative therapy

It was a long, hot day with too much driving and too many meeting deadlines. At the end of it, I was not just tired, but weary. And I still had to muster some mental energy to take some pictures. Arriving on the coast, the prospects looked OK – not brilliant but OK. I half-heartedly checked out a few viewpoints but nothing really set me alight if I’m honest. But I was on site and a job needed doing.

As the sounds and smells of the sea permeated my disenchanted mood, I started to lighten up. After 20 minutes of standing alone on a windswept headland, I felt more alive than I had done all day.  And as the sun dipped towards the horizon, painting the mudflats in  delicate pastel shades, the troubles of the day were long forgotten. Throw in a 10-stop ND filter to soften the image and I was verging on euphoria.

Creativity in the outdoors: the most effective tonic for life. Without charge.


The values of hooked bills.

Many of you will know of Roy Dennis, a man who has spent most of his life working with raptors. I saw him yesterday and he was telling me of his latest exploits satellite tracking peregrines, eagles and ospreys. He was also updating me on the hugely controversial problem of persistent raptor persecution in some parts of the Highlands. We agreed – and have done before – that the root of the issue is cultural rather than economic.

So is the glass half-full or half-empty? Over the years I’ve met lots of ‘half-empty’ types, claiming persecution will never stop, and I concede that it’s a societal problem that shows no sign of disappearing anytime soon. That said, there was a time when drink-driving was acceptable; ditto racism; ditto most ‘isms’, and, if we go back far enough, ditto slavery. It’s all to do with values, and values change slowly, especially those that are as entrenched as killing birds of prey.

So in spite of Roy’s (and many others) concerns, my glass is definitely half-full. With one caveat: legislation might provide a framework for dealing with those that are caught committing wildlife crimes, but it’s a crude tool for changing cultural values.