A Road Trip Through Scotland’s Finest Landscapes
On the 6th September 2025, I packed my camera gear, loaded the workshop vehicle and set off for another season of photography across Scotland
I arrived home on the 31st May 2026, opened the front door, put my bags down and stood in the hallway for a moment wondering what on earth I was supposed to do next.
For the previous nine months my life had revolved around weather forecasts, ferry timetables, workshop schedules and alarm clocks that seemed determined to ring at increasingly ridiculous hours. Suddenly there was nowhere I needed to be. No batteries to charge. No ferry to catch. No route to plan for the following day.
Just home.
It felt wonderful.
It also felt slightly strange.
9 months later.
25 workshops.
24,500 of miles driven.
46 ferry crossings.
More weather forecasts than any sane person should ever read.
And approximately 14,500 photographs later, another winter season has come to an end.
Have I enjoyed it?
You bet I have.
Would I do it all again?
You bet I will.
In fact, I cannot wait to start all over again in September.
A Season Written Across Scotland
People often ask me if I ever get bored visiting the same locations year after year.
The answer is simple.
No. Is the honest answer.
Not even slightly.
This season alone has taken me from the mountains of Glencoe to the rugged landscapes of Torridon, from the lochs and coastlines of Assynt to the fishing villages of the Moray Coast. I have spent time in the Cairngorms, on Skye, crossed to Harris and Lewis, explored the Uist Islands including Barra & Vatersay, ventured out to the Small Isles of Rum, Eigg, Muck & Canna and travelled north to Shetland, Orkney and some of their islands.
Each place feels different.
Glencoe has drama.
Torridon has grandeur.
Assynt has mystery.
The Moray Coast has character.
Skye has majesty.
Harris & Lewis has space.
The Uist Islands have tranquillity.
The Small Isles have adventure.
Shetland has wildness.
Orkney has history.
Yet what I love most is that none of these places ever stand still. The landscape changes every day. The weather changes every hour. The light changes every minute.
A beach that looked uninspiring yesterday can become magical today. A mountain hidden by cloud all morning can suddenly reveal itself for five minutes before disappearing again. Those five minutes are often enough to make an entire day worthwhile.
After more than forty years with a camera in my hand, I still find that exciting.
The Scottish Highlands never stand still.
The Parts Nobody Sees
Of course, life on the road isn’t always glamorous.
The photographs that appear on websites and social media rarely show the less glamorous moments.
They do not show the 4am alarm calls.
They do not show the ferry cancellations.
They do not show the endless checking of weather apps that often seem to disagree with one another entirely.
Nor do they show the occasional moment when a carefully planned sunrise is hidden behind a wall of thick cloud.
Photography has a habit of teaching humility.
Just when you think you have everything under control, nature gently reminds you otherwise.
There were days this season when the weather appeared determined to test everyone’s patience. There were occasions when Plan A quickly became Plan B, then Plan C, before eventually becoming a cup of tea while waiting for the rain to pass.
Yet strangely, these moments often become some of the most memorable.
Photography teaches patience because it leaves us with little choice.
The landscape works to its own timetable, not ours.
The best photographers eventually learn to accept that.
Living out of a suitcase for nine months.
Trying to remember which cottage currently contains your spare batteries.
Wondering whether the socks you’re wearing today belong to this week or last week.
And discovering that despite owning thousands of pounds worth of camera equipment, you’ve somehow forgotten your toothbrush.
Again.
Yet these minor inconveniences fade into insignificance when the light arrives.
That magical moment when a shaft of sunlight breaks through storm clouds over Harris.
The first colours of dawn touching the peaks of Glencoe.
Sea mist drifting across the sands of the Uists.
Fresh snow on the mountains of Torridon.
The aurora dancing over Shetland skies.
Moments that photographers live for.
Moments that never get old.
The People Who Make It Special
But perhaps the greatest reward of all has not been the landscapes.
It has been the people.
To everyone who joined me on a workshop this season, thank you.
Some of you travelled with me once.
Some of you returned two, three or even four times.
Some have travelled from Melbourne, Sydney, New Zealand, Toronto, California, New York, all over Europe, the UK and some have even travelled from the same precise location the Workshop is based in.
They have represented every stage of life, from those just beginning their photographic journey to those enjoying retirement, and every corner of the social spectrum in between.
Some have spent their careers in boardrooms, others on building sites, in classrooms, hospitals, factories or farms.
In everyday life many of these people might never have met, yet place them on the same beach waiting for sunrise or around the same dinner table at the end of the day and those differences quickly disappear. Photography has a wonderful ability to unite people. It reminds us that regardless of age, background or circumstance, we all share the same sense of curiosity, creativity and appreciation for the world around us.
That level of trust and support means more to me than you could possibly know.
Photography has a remarkable ability to bring people together.
It doesn’t matter whether someone is a complete beginner or an experienced photographer. We all stand in exactly the same place when the light arrives. We all experience that same excitement when conditions suddenly come together.
I’ve shared laughter on beaches, conversations on mountain roads and countless cups of tea in cottages across Scotland.
There have been moments of silence too — those magical moments when a group of photographers simply stand and watch the landscape in front of them without anyone saying a word.
Those moments stay with you.
Lessons Learned
As the season draws to a close, I realise that these workshops have changed me too.
I believe I have become a better photographer.
A better communicator.
A better organiser.
And perhaps most importantly, a better person.
Running photography workshops is about far more than teaching camera settings or composition. It’s about people. It’s about experiences. It’s about sharing a love of landscape and helping others create memories that will last long after the photographs have been taken.
After 25 workshops, I have learned that photography is rarely just about photography.
It is about friendship.
Adventure.
Creativity.
Patience.
And occasionally discovering that the weather forecast was spectacularly wrong.
Looking Ahead
Now, for the first time in nine months, I am home.
The camera bags have been unpacked.
My cameras and lenses have been sent to Fuji for a makeover.
The workshop vehicle can enjoy a well-earned rest.
The washing machine has entered a period of national emergency.
And I finally have time to sit quietly, reflect and appreciate what an extraordinary season it has been.
Would I change anything?
Not a chance.
Because despite the long days, changing weather, ferry timetables and endless miles on the road, I know how fortunate I am to spend my life doing something I genuinely love.
To everyone who shared this journey with me during the 2025/26 season: thank you.
Thank you for your friendship.
Thank you for your support.
Thank you for trusting me to guide you through some of Scotland’s most beautiful landscapes.
I hope our paths cross again soon.
September 2026 cannot come quickly enough.
