Why Happiness Matters More Than Photographs
Every so often I am asked a question that ought to be simple to answer, yet somehow never is.
“What is your favourite location in Scotland?”
As a landscape photographer who has spent many years exploring the Highlands and Islands, I should probably have a polished answer ready to deliver at a moment’s notice. Instead, I usually hesitate. Not because there are too many beautiful places to choose from, but because choosing a favourite depends entirely upon how we define the word.
Ask a landscape photographer to name their favourite locations and you will often hear talk of dramatic light, perfect compositions, photographic potential or memorable images.
But I wanted to approach this differently.
I don’t want this list to be based on where I have taken my best photographs. Nor do I want it to be based on technical possibilities, creative opportunities or social media popularity.
Because if I’m honest, photography can sometimes become far too serious.
We analyse compositions. We discuss filters. We compare cameras. We chase conditions and obsess over forecasts. Before long, we can forget something rather important:
Landscape photography is supposed to be fun.
For some it is a profession; for many it is a hobby. But at its heart, landscape photography offers us something remarkably simple: an excuse to spend time outdoors in beautiful places. It encourages us to slow down, to observe and to experience landscapes that might otherwise pass us by unnoticed.
And so I decided that if I were to choose my five favourite places in Assynt and Sutherland, I would ignore photography altogether.
These are not necessarily the places where I have taken my best photographs.
They are simply the places that make me happy.
And perhaps that is reason enough.
1. Loch Stack – A Landscape That Lets Me Breathe
There are landscapes that impress you immediately with their grandeur, and there are landscapes that quietly work their way into your affections over time. Loch Stack belongs firmly in the latter category.
I have driven along its shores countless times over the years, sometimes with workshop groups, more often alone, and yet I never tire of it. Ben Stack rises proudly above the loch while the surrounding hills create a scene that somehow feels both wild and peaceful at the same time. But if I am being completely honest, it is not the mountain or even the loch that draws me back time and time again. It is the little fishing bothy sitting quietly on the shoreline.
There is something wonderfully simple and reassuring about that small building. It feels rooted in the landscape, as though it belongs there in a way that few modern structures ever could. Over the years it has become far more than a photographic subject to me; it has become a familiar friend.
When I first moved to the Highlands, the road through Assynt was often part of my journey home. Reaching Loch Stack always brought a feeling of comfort because I knew I was nearly there. The Highlands had become home, and Loch Stack was one of the places that marked that homecoming.
Today, it still carries that same feeling. It is also where I base my Assynt photography workshops at nearby Stack Lodge. There is a quiet satisfaction in arriving with guests and sharing a landscape that has given me so much pleasure over the years. Returning to Stack Lodge always feels a little like returning home.
Even on days when the weather refuses to cooperate, when low cloud hangs stubbornly over the mountains or rain sweeps through the glen, I still find immense pleasure in simply being there.
Perhaps that is the true measure of a place.
It does not require perfect light to reveal its beauty.
Loch Stack has become somewhere I instinctively slow down. There is no urgency here. No pressure to create photographs. Sometimes I stand beside the water with a camera on the tripod and never even raise it to my eye.
Instead, I simply breathe.
In a world that often feels increasingly busy and noisy, Loch Stack offers something precious: peace.
2. Moine House – The Beauty of Solitude
There is something undeniably romantic about isolated buildings in wild landscapes. Perhaps it is the stories they hint at or the sense of solitude they evoke. Whatever the reason, Moine House has always held a special place in my heart.
The long drive to the extreme north of Scotland is part of the experience. There are no crowds here. No visitor centre. No queue of photographers. Instead there is only open moorland, endless skies and a silence that has become increasingly rare in our modern world.
And then, seemingly out of nowhere, the old building appears.
Each time I visit, I am struck by how wonderfully insignificant we are in landscapes like this. The house has stood through countless storms and changing seasons, quietly enduring while generations of visitors have come and gone. In a world that seems determined to move ever faster, Moine House remains gloriously still.
I often think that places like this are good for the soul. They remind us that life does not always have to be rushed. Sometimes there is value in simply sitting quietly and listening to the wind.
Moine House may not shout for attention, but perhaps that is precisely why I love it so much.
3. Durness – Where Adventure Begins
Some places make you feel calm. Others make you feel alive.
Durness does both.
The coastline around Durness possesses a quality that never fails to excite me. White sands meet turquoise water, cliffs plunge into the Atlantic and vast skies stretch endlessly overhead. On a sunny day it can feel almost tropical—at least until the Highland breeze reminds you exactly where you are.
Every visit feels like the start of an adventure.
There is always another beach to explore, another headland to climb or another hidden bay waiting to be discovered. Even after countless visits, I still find myself wandering with the same curiosity I felt when I first arrived here many years ago.
Perhaps that is one of the greatest gifts a landscape can give us: the ability to make us feel young again.
Durness never feels familiar in a tired or predictable way. Instead, it feels like an old friend who always has a new story to tell.
And every time I leave, I find myself looking forward to returning.
4. Clashnessie – A Place That Makes Me Smile
Few places capture the spirit of Assynt quite as perfectly as Clashnessie.
Here, mountains rise beyond sweeping beaches while ever-changing skies drift overhead. It feels as though someone gathered together all the finest ingredients of the Scottish landscape and placed them in one location.
Yet what I love most about Clashnessie is not its beauty but its atmosphere.
There is joy here.
Perhaps it is the sound of waves rolling onto the shore or the sight of distant peaks catching the evening light. Whatever the reason, I invariably find myself smiling when I arrive.
Photography can sometimes become serious business. We chase conditions, analyse forecasts and place pressure on ourselves to create something special. But Clashnessie gently reminds me that landscapes are meant to be enjoyed as much as they are photographed.
Sometimes the best moments happen after the camera has been packed away.
Sometimes the greatest reward is simply being there.
And few places make me happier than Clashnessie.
5. Stoer Lighthouse – A Beacon of Happiness
Those who know me well will not be surprised to find a lighthouse appearing on this list. I have always had a soft spot for them. In truth, my wife Sally might suggest that “soft spot” is a rather generous description of what is, in reality, a full-blown obsession.
Stoer Lighthouse has long been one of my favourite places anywhere in Scotland.
Perched high above the Atlantic Ocean, it feels like a place where Scotland truly ends and the vastness of the sea begins. On calm evenings it can feel peaceful and reflective. On stormy days it becomes dramatic and untamed.
The weather changes.
The light changes.
The mood changes.
But my affection for the place never does.
I have photographed Stoer countless times over the years, yet I would happily visit without a camera. I could sit on the cliffs listening to seabirds and watching waves crash far below for hours.
And perhaps that says everything.
Because when a place brings you joy even when photography is removed from the equation, you know it has become something more than a location.
It has become part of who you are.
The Places That Almost Made the List
Choosing only five locations has been almost impossible, because Assynt and Sutherland are filled with places that continue to make me happy every time I return.
Oldshoremore Beach – One of Scotland’s great beaches, where mountains, sand and sea come together in perfect harmony
Clachtoll – A place of changing moods and endless skies that never feels the same twice.
Elphin Bothy – A simple building surrounded by extraordinary scenery and a landscape that invites quiet reflection.
Ardvreck Castle – Perhaps one of Scotland’s most iconic ruins, standing proudly beside Loch Assynt beneath the watchful gaze of Suliven.
Loch Eriboll – Vast, remote and endlessly beautiful, a sea loch that always leaves me feeling small in the very best way.
The Interior – The empty roads, hidden lochs, lonely glens and great swathes of wilderness between the famous locations are often where some of the greatest joys are found.
The truth is that narrowing this list down to just five places has been almost impossible, which perhaps says more about this remarkable region than it does about my ability to choose. Assynt and Sutherland have become special to me not simply because they are beautiful, but because over the years I have allowed myself to slow down, to receive that beauty and, most importantly, to enjoy it. In doing so, these landscapes have given me far more than photographs; they have given me happiness.
The Simple Joy of Being There
When I look back over my years as a landscape photographer, I suspect I will remember far fewer photographs than I imagine. Images fade with time. Prints gather dust. Technology moves on.
But memories endure.
The sound of wind on a headland.
The smell of salt in the air.
The silence of an empty glen.
The warmth of a flask of coffee on a cold winter morning.
The simple happiness of being present in a beautiful place.
Perhaps that is what landscape photography has always been about.
Not the photographs we bring home.
But the joy we experience while we are there.
And if Assynt and Sutherland have taught me anything, it is this:
Never forget that photography is supposed to make us happy.
