My romance with the Isle of Skye began with such fervor that even the Highlands seemed to whisper its allure. I was enchanted by its rugged beauty, mist-kissed peaks, and the serene promise of solace. I envisioned myself meandering through its enchanting landscapes, uncovering inspiration hidden in every stone and patch of heather. Yet, as the days turned to years, my feelings began to wane. What once sparkled brightly felt like a cherished coin that had lost its shine, the island’s charm slowly fading like a dusty memory of a favorite film. The enchantment gradually ebbed away, leaving me with a bittersweet sense of nostalgia, as if Skye had handed me a poignant farewell that lingered long after our time together.
The first time I laid eyes on Skye, it was in the middle of one of the harshest winters in recent memory. The landscape, cloaked in a thick blanket of snow, looked like something straight out of a fairy tale—a world untouched, pure, and wild. Coming from a town in the East Midlands, where industrial parks, drab shopping centres, and the occasional rogue dog turd were the main attractions, Skye felt like an entire universe away. The contrast was so striking, it was almost comical. I’d spent my early days as a landscape photographer cutting my teeth in the Peak District, the Lake District, and Snowdonia—each place offering its own version of beauty—but none of them had quite clicked the way Skye did.
It was here, in the mist-draped hills and jagged coastline, that landscape photography suddenly made sense. It was like stepping into the frame of a picture I’d been trying to capture for years but could never quite get right. The scenes on Skye were everything I’d dreamed of and more—dramatic skies, raw, untamed nature, and an atmosphere so thick with history and legend it felt like you were photographing a place where time itself had taken a pause. Each shot I took felt meaningful, as if the land was not just offering up its beauty, but its soul. Suddenly, I wasn’t just snapping pictures. I was capturing something. And I was hooked. The romance of Skye wasn’t just in its landscapes, but in how it made me feel—alive, inspired, and profoundly small in the best way possible.
For years after, I made regular return journeys to Skye—each visit deepening my affection for the island, each click of the camera’s shutter capturing more of its rugged beauty. My photography flourished, and my love for the place grew. But then—ah, then—I decided to move to the Highlands. Suddenly, I had a whole new playground, a vast canvas of spectacular beauty, endless beauty to explore. The Cairngorms, Assynt, Torridon, the Western Isles—each new adventure offered up its own allure, pulling me further from Skye’s embrace.
It wasn’t that I fell out of love with Skye overnight. But as I roamed the untamed beauty of the wider Highlands, my infatuation for Skye gently faded into the background, like a favourite old song that you hear less often but still hold dear.
My affection for Skye was always wrapped up in my experiences—each photo I took, each misty morning I spent wandering the island, added another layer to my love for the island. But then something shifted. I ventured into Assynt and the other corners of the Highlands, and suddenly, my photography was on a whole new level—deeper, richer, and far more satisfying. The landscapes spoke to me in ways Skye, for all its beauty, no longer did. Skye felt like that overhyped movie everyone raves about, yet you leave the theatre wondering what all the fuss was about – chances to capture something fresh, something unique, were dwindling.
But what really sealed the deal was one particularly unforgettable photography workshop. It was as if the universe decided to hand me the full Skye experience—just not in the way I’d hoped. First, there was the hotel, which was a masterpiece of poor choices. My car deciding to stage a dramatic breakdown in the middle of nowhere, the weather turning from dreary to downright apocalyptic, and, to top it all off, I was greeted by a tourist stampede that made Skye feel more like a theme park than a remote paradise.
At that moment, Skye’s charm lost its shine. It wasn’t the island’s fault, of course, but it sure left a mark.
So, I thought it was time for me and the Isle of Skye to take a little “time out” – we needed a trial separation – time apart to see whether I would miss it. I decided that if I felt this way about Skye, how could inject love, passion, enjoyment into my clients experience of the island if I didn’t share those emotions. So, I left it off my Workshop schedule and to be quite honest, I didn’t miss it. My love of other areas of the Scottish Highlands grew and expanded to new locations. My photography continued to improve. In truth, Skye was now a distant memory – like an ex you no longer had feelings for. It seems I had subconsciously turned our little trial separation into a full-fledged breakup.
Assynt was my new love and to this day is still my favourite region of the Scottish Highlands. I can’t live without Assynt – the feelings I have for this region are feelings I thought I had for Skye. It has so much more to offer than Skye – its raw empty vastness of beauty, its world class coastline, its iconic skyline and a fraction of the tourists that flock to Skye. I had checked out of Skye, both physically and mentally.
But life as a professional landscape photographer is rarely simple. While my personal feelings toward Skye had grown cold, the practicalities of my career couldn’t be ignored. Skye remained an iconic destination, not just for me but for countless others who longed to experience its beauty. Leading workshops on the island had always been a reliable source of income, and I knew it would continue to attract aspiring photographers eager to learn amidst its breathtaking vistas. These financial realities forced me to confront my feelings. I had to ask myself whether my emotions were clouding my judgment. Could I reconcile my personal misgivings with the professional opportunities Skye presented.
It was during this period of self-reflection that I began to see the Isle of Skye through fresh eyes—not my own, but those of others. I started to appreciate the love so many people had for the island, a love that remained untarnished by the frustrations that had driven me away. To them, Skye was a dream destination, a place of wonder and discovery. Their enthusiasm reminded me of the awe I had once felt and challenged me to think beyond my own frustrations. Perhaps I had been selfish, expecting Skye to remain unchanged, a private sanctuary reserved for those who “truly understood” it. Was it fair to begrudge others their chance to experience the island’s magic, even if it came at the cost of its tranquility?
Over time, I developed a more balanced perspective. I realised that my feelings didn’t need to dictate my actions. Skye wasn’t “mine,” and I had no right to resent its popularity. At the same time, I knew I couldn’t return under the same conditions that had driven me away. Compromise became the key. If I were to return, it had to be on my terms. That meant avoiding the crowded peak seasons and instead embracing the island in midwinter, when the tourists thinned out and Skye’s wild, untamed beauty shone brightest. The harsh weather and shorter days might deter many, but for me, they offered a chance to reconnect with the Skye I had once loved.
In stepping back, both physically and emotionally, I found a way to redefine my relationship with Skye. It became less about what the island could give me and more about what I could share with others. By leading workshops in the quieter months, I could introduce others to Skye’s magic while preserving some semblance of the solitude I treasured. In this way, I learned to embrace Skye not as it once was, but as it is—a place of unparalleled beauty, worthy of both love and compromise.
And so, I have just returned from my first visit to Skye in 18 months, where I ran my first photography workshop since stepping away from the island. To my surprise, the trip was not only a success but also a deeply enjoyable experience. My participants left with incredible images, and the camaraderie we shared eased me back into the rhythms of Skye. It was midwinter, and the island was wonderfully quiet—its landscapes empty of tourists and restored to their raw, unspoiled beauty. We had Skye to ourselves, and it was a joy to rediscover its magic in this way. The hotel was exceptional, and the entire trip was filled with positive moments that left me feeling unexpectedly optimistic. So much so, in fact, that while I was there, I decided to book two more Isle of Skye workshops for the coming 12 months. I never imagined I would reach that point again. While I may never love Skye in the same way I once did, I’ve come to accept it for what it is now, and in doing so, I’ve found a way to appreciate it anew.