At the end of May, I suddenly found myself with something I don’t normally have very much of.
Time.
Fifteen weeks of it, in fact.
I had just finished my 25th and final residential workshop of the winter season on the 31st May in Orkney.
But now, there were no more.
No packing and unpacking. No checking weather forecasts. No early starts with a group of photographers waiting downstairs. No long drives between locations. No evenings discussing photographs around the table.
Just fifteen weeks at home.
When you spend so much of the year running residential photography workshops, fifteen weeks sounds like an eternity. At the beginning of the summer, September seemed a very long way away.
And yet here I am.
This weekend, it all begins again.
My new workshop season starts and from now until the middle of June next year, much of my life will once again be spent on the road, travelling around some of Scotland’s most beautiful landscapes and beyond with 22 different groups of photographers.
But I don’t think I’m quite the same person who finished the last workshop season.
And that, more than anything else, is what I did last summer.
I Didn't Want to Waste the Summer
I knew from the beginning that I didn’t want these fifteen weeks to simply disappear.
There were things I needed to address.
Some were physical. Some were probably psychological. And some were simply habits that had gradually crept into my life without me really noticing them.
The biggest concern, though, was the health of my right eye.
I suffer from a dry eye condition. For the most part, it had always been a nuisance – uncomfortable and irritating, certainly, but nothing more than that.
Until one morning last November on the Isle of Harris.
I woke with a strange sensation in my right eye. It was uncomfortable, slightly painful, but what concerned me far more was my vision. I simply couldn’t see properly. Everything was blurred and out of focus, with double vision at best. It felt as though I was looking at the world through a kaleidoscope.
For the next few days, I did what I suspect many of us do when we don’t particularly want to confront the possibility that something might be wrong. Besides, I was in the Outer Hebrides – what was I supposed to do?
I told myself it would pass. Keep washing the eye. Give it time. It’ll sort itself out.
But it didn’t.
For the next four months, very little changed despite seeing an eye specialist every couple of weeks when I was home. Then, while I was leading a workshop in the Uists during March, things suddenly became a whole lot worse.
Without warning, I developed a sharp and excruciating pain in my right eye. It became so severe that I could not open either of my eyes. It felt as if I had a splinter stretching across my whole right eye from the bottom left to the top right. Each time I moved my right eye, I almost broke down into tears. And of course, this meant I couldn’t open my left eye and use it because it meant my right eye would do the same movement. I had to keep my eyes closed. Fortunately – if that’s the right word – it happened on the final day of the workshop and one of my guests was able to drive us all home.
Over the following days, the pain gradually eased, but it was much later that I discovered what had actually happened. I had scratched my cornea, and together with the dry eye condition, my eyesight was temporarily taken away from me.
More worryingly, it wasn’t an isolated incident.
A couple of months later, the exact thing, happened again, in Shetland and then again in Orkney.
Anyone who has experienced serious eye discomfort and pain will probably understand just how consuming it can become. You cannot really get away from it. You blink and you’re reminded of it. You wake up and wonder how it will feel today.
And when your entire working life revolves around photography, your eyesight suddenly feels even more precious.
So this summer, looking after my eye became a priority.
It still needs managing. The dry eye hasn’t magically disappeared and neither has the reality of the damage to my cornea. But compared with where I was, things have improved enormously.
And somewhere along the way, concentrating on one part of my health made me start thinking about the rest of it.
I Had Forgotten How Much I Needed Ordinary Life
My life is fairly seasonal.
For much of the year, photography dictates the rhythm. I travel around the Scottish Highlands leading workshops, meeting clients and spending an enormous amount of time outdoors.
I love it.
Photography has given me an extraordinary life and continues to do so.
But when you do something for a living, even something you love, life inevitably develops a rhythm around it.
This summer broke that rhythm.
I was home.
My wife and I walked our three dogs.
We invested in two e-bikes and rode around the countryside near to where we live in the Cairngorms.
I read more.
I spent more time with my wife.
Sometimes, I did very little at all.
And slowly I began to realise just how much I enjoyed the simplicity of it.
There wasn’t one great moment when everything suddenly changed.
It was much quieter than that.
I simply began to feel better.
A Summer of Small Changes
I started taking better care of myself.
At the beginning of the summer, I knew I needed to lose weight, but I wanted something more meaningful than simply picking a number out of the air.
So I looked at the NHS guidance on weight and BMI. Using my height as a starting point, I could see roughly where my weight should be and, perhaps more importantly, how far away from that I had allowed myself to become.
That gave me a target.
Over the course of the last fifteen weeks, I have lost 48lbs.
Even writing that feels slightly strange.
But this was never really about reaching a particular number on the scales or looking different. The number simply gave me something tangible to work towards.
What mattered far more was changing some of the habits that had got me there in the first place.
I started walking more, I changed what I was eating and Sally and I spent countless hours riding through the Cairngorms. I became much more conscious of the choices I was making each day.
And gradually I began to feel the difference.
I feel lighter, obviously, but more importantly I feel fitter. My energy levels are better. Walking feels easier. Cycling feels easier. Everyday things feel easier.
Perhaps the biggest change is simply that I feel more comfortable in myself.
I’m not suggesting for one moment that anybody else should follow what I’ve done. This isn’t a weight-loss article and it certainly isn’t advice.
It’s simply what I felt I needed to do.
And 48lbs later, I’m very glad that I did.
I’ve exercised more.
My blood pressure has improved and is now in the healthy bracket according to the NHS health checker.
I’ve stopped drinking alcohol – 15 weeks and counting – and discovered that, surprisingly perhaps, I don’t miss it.
My debilitating eye condition, a corneal abrasion coupled with dry eye, has improved beyond what I could reasonably hope for and is now, touch wood, under control. This was my number one priority for the summer.
The e-bikes turned out to be one of the best decisions we made all summer.
We are incredibly fortunate to live where we do.
The Cairngorms National Park is effectively on our doorstep, and yet-as so often happens with places close to home-it is very easy to take that for granted.
Our e-bikes changed that.
Suddenly we had another reason to get outside.
Sally and I have spent so many days this summer simply getting on the bikes and heading out together through the Cairngorms landscape. But none of these things happened because I embarked upon some enormous programme of self-improvement.
They were mostly small decisions repeated often enough to become habits.
Go for a walk.
Get on the bike.
Eat a little better.
Read my book.
Don’t have a drink.
Nurse my eye.
Slow down.
Go to bed.
Do it again tomorrow.
Individually, none of those decisions felt particularly significant.
Collectively, they have changed the way I’ve felt.
But perhaps the most important change isn’t something that can be measured.
I’ve liked the person I’ve been this summer.
That sentence feels slightly strange to write.
But it’s true.
I’ve felt more relaxed. More positive. More present.
I’ve had more time for other people and, more importantly, more time for myself.
I’ve had space to think.
And I’ve remembered that not every hour needs to be productive.
Being a Photographer Again
There was something else I wanted from these fifteen weeks.
I wanted to pick up my camera occasionally for no reason other than I wanted to make photographs.
That distinction is important.
I love teaching photography. I love my workshops, the people I meet through them and the privilege of sharing landscapes I know so well.
But there is something very different about photographing completely for yourself.
No responsibility.
Nobody waiting.
No need to consider whether somebody else has found a composition or needs help with their camera.
Just me, the landscape and however long I decide to spend there.
I’ve had some wonderful opportunities to make my own photographs this summer and I think I’ve appreciated them more because I haven’t felt the need to produce anything.
I could simply enjoy landscape photography again.
And perhaps some of the ideas I’ve been writing about recently in my Inside Photography Workshops series- slowing down, observing and understanding why we photograph-have been reinforced by having that freedom myself.
Sometimes the photographer needs exactly the same thing I encourage people on my workshops to do.
Slow down.
Look.
And stop worrying about whether you’re going to come home with a photograph.
Does the Summer Have to End?
As September drew closer and my first workshop of the season closer still, I found myself looking at my diary more frequently.
Dates that seemed distant suddenly aren’t distant at all.
In a few days I’ll be packing the cameras, the waterproofs, tripods and everything else back into my vehicle and heading off again for a season of 22 residential workshops.
And I’m looking forward to it.
I’m looking forward to being out in the incredible Scottish Highlands landscapes.
I’m looking forward to teaching again.
There is still enormous satisfaction in watching somebody see a photograph they hadn’t noticed before, or helping someone understand something about photography that has frustrated them for years.
I’ve missed that.
But something has been nagging me.
Not whether I want to return.
I do.
The question is much simpler.
Why should returning to work mean leaving everything I’ve discovered this summer behind?
Perhaps I've Been Looking at it the Wrong Way
I think many of us divide our lives into compartments.
Work and holiday.
Busy and quiet.
On duty and off duty.
We tell ourselves we’ll exercise when things calm down.
We’ll read when we have more time.
We’ll eat better after this busy week.
We’ll phone somebody tomorrow.
We’ll slow down when everything else is finished.
The trouble is that everything else is rarely finished.
There will always be another email.
Another job to do.
Another deadline.
Another reason why today isn’t quite the right day to look after ourselves.
Perhaps I’ve been guilty of exactly that.
I’ve thought of this summer as a fifteen week period during which I could live differently because I wasn’t travelling as much.
But what if that’s the wrong way of looking at it?
Maybe this wasn’t a temporary version of my life at all.
Maybe I’ve spent the summer discovering which parts of my life I need to protect.
A Quieter Kind of Summer
Looking back, the things I have enjoyed most have actually been remarkably ordinary.
Walking our three dogs.
Cycling with Sally.
Being at home.
Going out with my camera.
Eating better.
Feeling healthier.
Having periods of quiet.
Occasionally doing absolutely nothing.
Having evenings where tomorrow didn’t involve packing equipment or driving several hundred miles.
There hasn’t been one defining moment.
No dramatic transformation.
They certainly wouldn’t make very exciting Instagram content.
But perhaps that’s the point.
Social media tends to celebrate the exceptional.
But real life is mostly made up of much smaller moments.
And perhaps that is why this summer feels significant.
And Now Comes the Difficult Bit
If this article ended here, it would all be rather neat.
Fifteen weeks at home.
My right eye is finally under control.
48lbs lost.
No alcohol.
More walking – lots of cycling. Better energy levels.
Cue uplifting music and roll the credits.
Except life doesn’t really work like that.
Because now I have to take everything I’ve changed and put it into a completely different environment.
And, if I’m truthful, I’m a little nervous about that.
This weekend I begin another long season of residential photography workshops.
For the next nine months, home will often become somewhere I visit between trips.
My routines will change.
The e-bike won’t be sitting there waiting for me every morning.
My familiar walks won’t be outside the front door.
Meal times will change.
Days will become longer.
There will be early mornings, late evenings, thousands of miles behind the wheel and the responsibility of looking after the people who have trusted me with their time and money.
And that is where all these good intentions will actually be tested.
It is relatively easy to create a routine when you control your environment.
The real challenge is maintaining it when you don’t.
I don’t want to get to next June and discover that everything I achieved this summer gradually disappeared somewhere between Skye, Harris, Torridon, Glencoe, Assynt and all the other places the next nine months will take me.
I want these changes to be permanent.
Not perfect.
Permanent.
And I think there is an important difference.
Taking the Summer With Me
Perhaps the answer isn’t trying to recreate my summer routine while I’m away.
That probably would be unrealistic.
Instead, I want to take the principles of it with me.
Look after myself a little better.
Walk when I can.
Eat sensibly.
Make time to stop.
Continue looking after my eye.
Recognise when I’m tired rather than simply pushing through it.
And perhaps accept that occasionally things won’t go to plan.
One bad day doesn’t undo fifteen good weeks.
One missed walk doesn’t mean I failed.
One difficult week doesn’t mean I’m back where I started.
I think that’s something I’m going to need to remember.
A Better Photographer - and Hopefully a Better Teacher
There is another reason I want these changes to last.
My workshops demand a lot of me and rightly so.
People travel a long way to join me. They spend their money and give me something even more valuable – their time.
They deserve the best version of me that I can give them.
If I’m fitter, I have more energy.
If I’m healthier, I can concentrate better.
If I’m mentally fresher, I have more patience.
And if I have spent time looking after myself, perhaps I have more of myself available to give to the people around me.
That can only make me a better workshop leader and, I hope, a better teacher.
So although these fifteen weeks have been very personal, I think the benefits will travel much further than that.
They will come with me.
So, What Did I Do Last Summer?
Not very much, really.
And quite a lot.
I stayed home.
I walked.
Sally and I rode our bikes through the Cairngorms.
I took photographs.
I looked after my eye.
I lost 48lbs.
I stopped drinking alcohol.
I spent more time with the people-and dogs-I love.
I slowed things down.
And somewhere amongst all those fairly ordinary things, I started to feel considerably better.
This weekend the camera bags will be packed again.
The vehicle will be loaded again.
I’ll check the weather forecasts far too many times.
And another workshop season will begin.
Am I excited?
Absolutely.
Am I slightly apprehensive?
Yes.
Because I know the next nine months will test some of the promises I’ve made to myself over the summer.
But perhaps that’s the point.
The last fifteen weeks were never supposed to be a temporary health kick before returning to my old life.
I want them to have changed the way I live that life.
I don’t know exactly how successful I’ll be.
Perhaps that’s another article for next summer.
But I’m going into this workshop season lighter, fitter, healthier and, I think, happier.
I feel ready to get back out there.
Ready to teach.
Ready to photograph.
Ready to see familiar landscapes again.
Ready to meet photographers who will share them with me.
And perhaps most importantly, ready to try to look after myself while I’m doing it.
So yes.
I know what I did last summer.
And I very much hope I’m still feeling the benefit of it next summer too.
