Introduction: Choosing with the Heart
As a professional landscape photographer based in the Scottish Highlands, I spend much of my time immersed in the wild and elemental beauty of this extraordinary land. Over the past nine months, from the salt-lashed shores of the Uist Islands in September to the ancient drama of Orkney in June, I’ve had the privilege of leading my Winter Season Photo Tours across some of the most awe-inspiring locations in Scotland.
Thousands of images have filled my memory cards during this time—each with its own story, light, and composition. Choosing a favourite? Near impossible. But as I reflected on the season, I found myself returning not to the “best” shots in terms of technical perfection or critical acclaim, but rather to the ones that made me feel most alive—those moments shared with others, filled with laughter, awe, spontaneity, and joy. These photographs are chosen not only for what they show, but for what they meant—to me and to the groups of passionate photographers who joined me.
Landscape photography can often be a solitary pursuit. But the magic of running residential photo tours is that I get to share these fleeting, breathtaking moments with others. Over the past eight years of guiding these tours, I’ve forged deep friendships built on the foundation of these shared experiences—watching the light shift over a mountain, chasing a snow squall across a beach, standing speechless as storm and sun wrestle for dominance in the sky.
This is a celebration of those moments.
Dalmore Beach, Isle of Lewis – Where the Storm Sang
My first favourite comes from a stormy morning at Dalmore Beach on the Isle of Lewis. That morning in the hotel, things weren’t looking promising—weather apps were unanimous: heavy rain, all day. The kind of forecast that makes you question everything. We sat in that familiar limbo, half-dressed in waterproofs, half-convinced to stay put.
Then one of the group turned to me and asked, “What would you do if you were here on your own?” Without hesitation, I said, “I’d go. You just never know what might happen out there.”
We loaded up the vehicle and drove out. And it turned out to be the right call.
At Dalmore, the wind howled and the rain lashed sideways, but the Atlantic was in full voice—wild, majestic, unruly. We found a relatively sheltered spot and started shooting. The sea put on an incredible show: wave after wave crashing into dramatic backwash, sea spray catching brief glints of broken light.
But what made it truly special wasn’t the drama of the scene—it was the energy among the group. Whoops of joy cut through the roar of the wind. The delight on everyone’s faces said it all. In that moment, I wasn’t focused on composing my own perfect shot. I was watching them, watching the sea. Sharing that thrill. That connection—with nature, with each other—was the real reward.
Seilebost at Dawn – A Lucky Detour
This second image? A total fluke. A gift from the gods of light.
We had set out with a clear plan: Scarista Beach. It had snowed overnight, and I knew Scarista would offer vast vistas and incredible light with the snow-dusted backdrop. We even skipped breakfast in anticipation.
But as we drove along the winding Hebridean road, a quick glance to my right made my heart skip. The beach near Seilebost—normally stunning—was transformed. The dawn light was just beginning to stretch across the sky, turning it a deep, inky blue with the faintest orange glow. The mountains were blanketed in snow. And most incredibly, snow dusted the beach itself. A surreal and rare sight.
Without hesitation, we diverted. Parked. Jumped out of the car. Rushed to the viewpoint I had in mind.
And then silence. Awe. Cameras clicked rapidly for a few minutes—then nothing. Just quiet gratitude. No words needed. The world was putting on a quiet masterpiece, and we were lucky enough to witness it.
But nature wasn’t done yet. As we stood there, a huge snowstorm loomed in the distance, charging across the sea toward us. Back to the car we ran, laughing and breathless, chased by flakes the size of feathers.
Cairns of Coll – A Brief Window of Wonder
My third and final absolute favourite was taken in May on my trip to Tiree and Coll. We arrived on Coll a day later than planned due to a ferry cancellation from the neighbouring island of Tiree. With barely eight hours on the island before we had to move on again, there was no time to waste. We headed straight for the Cairns of Coll, a location I’d long hoped to explore with a group.
What we found was nothing short of breathtaking—a colossal natural amphitheatre shaped by time, tide, and geology. Jagged rock formations rising from white sands, dramatic sweeps of coastline, and stillness in the air. We scurried around like excited children, nervous in the best kind of way—wondering if we could ever truly do this scene justice.
The light was perfect. The air was calm enough for long exposures, with just enough breeze to keep the midges at bay. The group’s energy was infectious—shouts of joy rang out as each person reviewed their last frame on the back of the camera. It was raw, honest enthusiasm.
For me, it was a moment of quiet pride. Watching others find that blend of awe, gratitude, and creative focus is what these tours are all about. The Cairns of Coll was more than just a ticked location—it was a gift. And it will remain one of the most unexpected highlights of the entire season.
So many Other Memories
Clachan Sands, North Uist – Stillness and Simplicity
There have been so many other moments during the past 9 months which have meant so much to me:
There are moments that shout with drama, and there are moments that whisper their beauty. Clachan Sands in September was the latter.
A low tide had peeled back the layers of the Hebridean coastline, exposing shimmering sandbars and mirror-like pools. The sun, soft and golden, hovered low over the horizon—its light spilling across the bay like a blessing. Everything was calm. Everything was right.
There was no rushing, no scrambling. Just quiet. Everyone found their own space. The shutter sounds were slower, gentler. The scene was so delicate, it felt as though even breathing too loudly might disturb it.
We all felt it—that hush. That sense of being part of something deeply serene. It’s rare, and it’s precious. That image I captured may look simple, but every time I see it, I’m taken back to that deep quiet and the sense of community that formed in those still, golden minutes.
Moine House – The Long Journey to Partial Light
It takes something special to make a 4am departure feel like a joy. Moine House delivers that in spades.
That morning, we left Ullapool in complete darkness, headlights carving a narrow path northward through the sleeping Highlands. Four hours of cold coffee, quiet roads, and a sense of anticipation building with every mile.
As we arrived at Moine House—perched in glorious isolation near the top of Scotland—the sky was just beginning to lift. The derelict stone shell stood stoic as the early light began to gently graze the surrounding hills. It was one of those slow-building scenes, where each minute brings a new reward: a pink hue here, a shadow revealing texture there.
What made this morning unforgettable wasn’t just the scene (though it was spectacular), but watching the group respond to the subtleties of “partial light”—that in-between moment before full sunrise, where contrast and subtle tones dance with nuance.
Helping others to compose and recognise those fleeting gifts of light was as fulfilling as any image I captured. Moine House never fails to deliver, and that morning, it offered more than just photographs—it offered a sense of quiet wonder and shared accomplishment.
Storm Over South Uist – Slowing Down the Chaos
Some of the most powerful images come from the most miserable days.
That afternoon on South Uist was rough: high winds, freezing rain, and an oppressive grey light that seemed to promise nothing. But I’ve learned not to trust the forecast, and not to fear the storm. So we went out.
And what a decision that turned out to be.
The sky was alive—not with sunlight, but with energy. Dark, muscular clouds surged across the sky toward Barra in the distance. Something told me: slow it down.
We all set up for long exposures—four, five, six minutes. Let the storm move. Let the chaos blur into beauty. My own 4-minute exposure caught the swirling sky perfectly, with Barra briefly visible, like an island emerging from a dream.
It’s one of those images that feels like it wasn’t taken so much as received. I just had to show up, trust the conditions, and stay open. And seeing everyone else thrilled with what they were capturing, despite the cold and discomfort, reminded me once again why I love leading these tours.
Fragments of Joy – Other Moments That Mattered
There are so many more moments that sit gently in my memory—quiet and powerful in their own way.
Each one of these moments is attached to a photograph, yes—but more than that, they are anchored in shared awe, laughter, windburned cheeks, and friendships formed under ever-changing skies.
Conclusion: Photography as Connection
If this season has taught me anything, it’s this: the best photographs are not just the ones with the best light, or sharpest focus. They’re the ones that hold meaning.
Every image I’ve chosen here comes from a moment of connection—between people, place, and presence. Whether we were chasing light across snowy ridges or standing in silence before a pastel sky, it was the sharing of those experiences that gave them life.
Landscape photography might be a solitary art, but these workshops remind me, again and again, that its truest power lies in community—shared creativity, mutual encouragement, and the joy of seeing someone else’s eyes light up behind the viewfinder.
To all those who joined me this past season: thank you. These favourites are not just my favourites. They’re ours.
Here’s to more memories, more surprises, and more photographs that make us feel alive.