Do You Sleep with the Window Open?
There are two types of people in this world: those who sleep with the bedroom window closed, sealed, latched, and psychologically reinforced… and those who fling it wide open and dare the night to do its worst.
As a landscape photographer in the Scottish Highlands, I would love to say I belong firmly in the second category. That I fall asleep heroically beneath starlight and drifting Highland air, wrapped in nothing but a wool blanket and my artistic integrity.
In reality? It’s complicated.
You see, spending my days chasing light across the coastlines and mountains has given me a romantic attachment to “fresh air.” The kind of air that rolls down from corries and glens, brushes across lochs like a quiet rumour, and carries the faint scent of peat and heather. It feels almost disrespectful to shut a double-glazed barrier against it at night.
And yet.
There is a particular moment—usually around 2:17am—when the romance fades. The wind changes direction. The temperature drops by several emotional degrees. And the sheep begin whatever it is sheep do in the pitch dark that sounds suspiciously like a conspiracy.
Sleeping with the window open in the Highlands feels poetic. It feels correct. There’s something about lying in bed and hearing the wind move through the grasses like a soft applause for the day’s efforts.
On clear nights, the stars perform outrageously. The sky becomes theatrical. I’ve often found myself standing at the open window in my pyjamas, debating whether this is the start of an astrophotography session or a hypothermia incident.
There’s also the soundtrack.
Unlike cities—with their sirens, traffic, and late-night philosophical debates conducted at high volume—the Highlands offer a subtler symphony. The distant rush of water. The occasional owl, sounding both wise and slightly judgemental. The wind humming around the room like it’s checking the insulation.
For a landscape photographer, this is bliss. The outside world isn’t something you escape from at night—it’s something you continue participating in, horizontally.
And let’s not forget the smug factor.
There is something undeniably virtuous about saying, “Oh, I always sleep with the window open.” It suggests resilience. Ruggedness. Possibly Viking ancestry.
Now we must discuss the wind.
If you have not experienced a Highland wind at 3am, let me paint you a picture: imagine a very large invisible person trying to enter your bedroom through interpretive dance.
The gentle breeze you welcomed at bedtime evolves. It gathers confidence. It finds loose things. It introduces them to other loose things. And suddenly your peaceful slumber becomes an auditory guessing game.
Was that:
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The recycling bin?
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A branch?
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The beginning of a minor structural issue?
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Or simply the Highlands reminding you who is actually in charge?
Then there’s the rain.
Highland rain does not knock politely. It commits. It arrives sideways. It finds angles you did not know your house possessed.
Sleeping with the window open during a rainstorm is less “connected to nature” and more “surprised by how far sideways rain can travel.”
And let us not overlook the midges.
The midge is small. The midge is determined. The midge has a master’s degree in infiltration. There is no greater act of optimism than assuming your bedroom will remain a midge-free sanctuary just because you asked nicely.
The Photographer’s Dilemma
My daily routine is built around the weather. I wake before dawn, peer at the sky like a hopeful gambler, and decide whether to chase light or return to bed with theatrical disappointment.
The window, therefore, becomes symbolic.
Open window: I am connected to the landscape. I am receptive to changing light. I am one with the glen.
Closed window: I would like eight uninterrupted hours of sleep and the structural integrity of my duvet to remain uncompromised.
Sometimes I compromise. I open the window just enough to feel noble but not enough to invite airborne livestock commentary. I tell myself this is balance.
But balance in the Highlands is relative. The weather can transform from serene pastel sunrise to full cinematic drama before you’ve located your boots. The same wind that gently tousled the grasses in yesterday’s golden-hour shot might now be attempting to relocate your wheelie bin to Norway.
And yet, that unpredictability is why I photograph here.
The Highlands at dawn—mist lifting off a loch, mountains blushing under first light—are the visual equivalent of a held breath. Being present for that requires a kind of willingness to be slightly uncomfortable. Slightly cold. Slightly unsure.
Sleeping with the window open feels like rehearsal for that.
Night Noises and Imagination
There is something about lying awake in a dark Highland bedroom with an open window that awakens the imagination.
Every rustle becomes narrative.
A badger?
A deer?
A rogue hiker who ignored all sensible map-reading advice?
In daylight, these landscapes are vast and majestic. At night, they are vast and imaginative. The open window acts like a portal—reminding you that the wilderness you admired through your lens is still very much out there, doing wilderness things.
Close the window, and the room becomes contained. Safe. Civilised.
Open it, and you’re participating in the ongoing story of wind, water, and whatever just knocked over something that definitely wasn’t there earlier.
So… Do I Sleep with the Window Open or Closed?
Here is my honest answer:
Yes.
If the night is calm and clear, if the air smells like heather and possibility, the window is open. I fall asleep listening to the land breathe and wake up feeling like I’ve been gently stored in nature’s fridge.
If the forecast suggests “character-building conditions,” the window is closed with the quiet efficiency of someone who values dry bedding.
The truth is, landscape photography has taught me that you don’t control the elements—you collaborate with them. Some nights are for openness. Some are for insulation.
And perhaps that’s the metaphor I didn’t know I was writing toward.
Keeping the window open is an act of trust. Closing it is an act of wisdom. Living in the Highlands requires both.
Tomorrow morning, I’ll likely wake before sunrise. I’ll step outside into air that feels freshly minted. I’ll shoulder my camera bag and walk toward whatever light is gathering over the hills.
And tonight?
Well.
I’ll check the wind direction first.
