photography – Tide Notes

A Love Letter to Spring

It had been a very long, bleak winter. Storms had battered the west coast of Scotland; day after day of rain, bitter cold and wind strong enough to knock down power lines, I’d had my fill of winter. We had been lucky enough to have a good load of snow for a few days, but being on the coast it usually melted soon enough. Everywhere was always dark and miserable – the daylight too short and the nights too long. And yet, without fail, Spring always catches me by surprise each time. The clocks are put forward and I wait with bated breath, as if expecting the sun and every creature to burst out in full bloom. But the rain persisted, and just as I had lost any hope for any signs of spring… the leaves began to unfurl. Tentatively. Like dipping your toes into the sea just to check how cold it was.

Before I knew it, Spring had leapt in.

I found myself getting completely overwhelmed with how fast life had managed to emerge after such a grueling winter. Even the most battered of trees from the Winter winds had soft, velvety leaves softly uncurling in the growing warmth. Celandines and Daisies soon peppered any patch of green grass, tilting towards the Sun sat within a piercing blue sky. Every walk with Roscoe was slower as I took my time to admire each sign of life. I pause at each tree adorned with fresh leaves to run them between my fingers. The leaves haven’t hardened yet – still that soft, satiny feel that feels like you’re gently rubbing the ear of a lamb.

Everywhere I looked there was suddenly signs of life filling every gap. I was so used to months of dead bracken, grey skies and mud puddles, that to see so much colour was mind-boggling. Something I appreciate so much about Spring is the sweetness of seeing everything return to its fresh, green warmth, regardless of how cruel of a winter it was. Lambs soon filled the fields, bounding and tripping over lush green grass. To my sheer excitement one evening walking Roscoe, a fleet of Swallows sat along a phone wire overhead. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, blinking up at them and rubbing my eyes to see if I was correct, and soon enough they took off, their forked tails silhouetted against a Cerulean sky.

Of course, I always tend to see the best views and wildlife when I haven’t got my camera with me. And with the incredible weather we have been blessed with and the return of all the best that Spring has to offer, my camera has been attached to my hip 24/7. It’s stuffed into my work bag even on a closing shift incase there is a sunset worth photographing, or if I’m lucky the resident dog otter may make an appearance down the pier opposite.

I don’t know what isn’t to love about Spring. People seem infinitely happier too – trips into town are filled with the smell of perfume and sweat, a flurry of summer dresses, shorts and ice cream. Seagulls in their hundreds, perched like feathery assassins preying on anyone taking their eye off their chips long enough for an attack. Buskers perched at each street corner, music and laughter filling each crevice in the cobbled streets. God, I love it.

The nights are long enough now that I don’t even want an early bed – which is unheard of from me. On nights off Roscoe and I disappear down to the beach with our Crabbing kit about 8pm to see if we can catch anything. As it stands I haven’t yet, and Roscoe keeps eating all my bait. Sitting on the rocks, waiting to see if anything takes, the water laps at our feet and a Cuckoo calls from the forest opposite. Despite my bad luck, the nights themselves are glorious. The setting sun creates a shining golden warmth, and at the right angle the rays just catch the ends of the Silver birch branches, making them Auburn in the dying light. Bluebells have even started to slowly emerge, but they seem a little more hesitant to fully unfurl and relax, similar to the ferns that coil tight still like Ammonites.

I always put myself under a subconscious pressure to enjoy this part of the year. Winter always feels so long, especially on the West Coast which is infamous for constant rain and grey clouds. It seems to drag forever, and I get lost in the slow days and weeks before suddenly it’s almost May. And the Swallows have arrived, and the Lambs and the Cuckoos. Then we’re almost half way through the year, and everything is at its peak for what seems like a second before the fresh green leaves start turning brown in the dying warmth.

I’ve made it my mission to investigate every single scrap of sun and life Spring is offering this year, Roscoe and camera in tow. It’s so easy to let it slip by you in the usual day to day, especially on days after late work nights where sometimes I really can’t be bothered to be out with Roscoe. But I force myself to crane my neck up and notice all the fresh leaves and birds. The Swallows eating up all the damn midges (our unsung heroes here in Scotland), the calls of the Cuckoos and the Corncrakes flying overhead as they make their way over to more rural islands. I can’t bear the thought of all this life eventually dying away, as is the cycle of the seasons. If it was up to me, we would stay in Spring permanently. Where the sun isn’t too hot and all the migrating birds stay, and the flowers and lambs remain within the lush green fields.

I know that’s impossible, but the thought is nice. For now I’m perfectly happy with just keeping my camera with me as often as I can to admire all that this Spring has to offer.

Out of Milk

It wasn’t often that we ran out of milk. Usually, trips into town were planned with enough thought to avoid it – planning what we needed, making sure there was always another pint in the fridge to carry us over until the next time we made the journey out. Because it is a journey to the nearest town. Living where we are now requires that kind of planning – I learnt quickly that nothing is ever quite on your doorstep.

But occasionally, you miss it.

And when you do, you find yourself standing in the kitchen on a Sunday, halfway through making a brew, before realising you’ve got just enough milk left to turn the water a funny colour. The wrong colour. The kind of amount of milk that forces a decision.

On a Sunday, the decision becomes very simple. All the small independent shops that are luckily not entirely far from home are closed. There’s no quick fix, no short walk, no popping out for five minutes. It means one thing.

A drive.

The road towards the Co-op at the mouth of Glencoe isn’t one you take absentmindedly. Even after living here for a fair while now, the journey never feels ordinary.

That day, the tall, rolling hills were obscured. Russet brown, thick grey mist clinging to the bracken, half-hidden with clouds that lazily sloped over their tops, revealing and concealing their sheer height in slow shifts. The clouds hung low with the threat of rain, but it was yet to fall. Which was good, because I had prioritised bringing my camera and wallet instead of a raincoat. Rookie.

The loch sat calm opposite as we hugged the road that coasted beside it. I kept a keen eye out for otters along the way, but saw nothing but buoys and bobbing boats.

The scenery was epic. And yet, there we were – driving through it all for a pint of milk.

By the time we pulled up to the Co-op, the warmth of the car had done its job, and stepping out into the damp air felt sharper than I expected. I blinked at the fluorescent lighting, listening to the hum of the fridges and the chatter of customers. The shop was never quiet. I dodged between tired locals, brushing shoulders with the protective jacket of a Forestry worker and weaved between the huge, bulging rucksacks on the backs of weary hikers. The shop sits on the West Highland Way route, and is a popular pit stop. No wonder the Lucozade stock was almost empty.

I was sluggish myself, still carrying the weight of a late shift. I fumbled with the self-checkout, tapping the screen a little more firmly than necessary as if that might encourage it along. It didn’t take me long to compare the scenery and life here to the one we had in Northern England.

There was a convenience to it, I’ll admit. The Tesco Express by the bus stop I used to stand at on the way to school – always open, always there, never something you had to think about. The kind of place you could walk into half-asleep and still come out with exactly what you needed in under five minutes. No planning or journey. Just…there.

But that thought doesn’t last long. Stepping back outside shifts everything again.

Milk in hand, a coffee for the road, I look over my shoulder to study the huge, roaring mountains behind the back of the shop. It’s enough to make me pause, studying the lolling rolls of a darkening cloud. And just like that, the trade-off feels obvious. You don’t regret it. Not even slightly.

We didn’t head straight back. Not when the scenery looked as epic as always. Instead, we carried on – a loose loop around the mouth of Glencoe through the surrounding village. Just following the curve of the road as it meandered through the landscape.

I didn’t bring my camera for nothing.

Nose practically pressed against the window, the minute I saw anything dramatic enough, I’d ask to pull over and I’d charge out of the car, fumbling with my lens cap.

The jetty stretched out into the water. The wood was slippery and I almost pulled every muscle in my body as I skidded to get a better angle of the scene. Rust spread over the old boat opposite, ropes coiled tight around worn posts. The mountains yet again remained a constant.

Further along, the view opened out. A small island in the middle of the loch. Traces of fresh green, an omen of spring yet to come, that circled bare trees. The water barely moved around it, disturbed only by a pair of Merganser ducks that bobbed through.

It had started to rain by now. My choice to not bring a coat was becoming more stupid and obvious the more I scurried along with my now sodden camera.

The clicks of the shutter was the only sound there, or the occasional “oooh that’s the one” from me studying the rain splattered screen on my camera. Or the embarrassing yelp I made when my foot disappeared down a rock pool.

I found myself rushing back to the car once I’d got enough pictures, thoroughly soaked from the rain that was now heavy and thick.

I shouldn’t have rushed at all really. Maybe because even the most ordinary of tasks here ask a little more of you – a bit more time, a bit more thought.

Or maybe it’s just that, in the middle of it all, you’re constantly reminded of where you are.

And for me, I couldn’t feel further away from the Tesco Express opposite my old bus stop. And that’s fine by me.

By the time we made it back, the milk had become secondary. Just something that justified the drive.

And for what it’s worth – the milk made for an absolutely beltin’ brew.

Following the Deer Trail

It was a dreich day when Roscoe and I left the house to take a different route for our usual morning walk. That fine rain that soaks you thoroughly, sticking to your waterproof gear. My camera bag was bulging at the seams with a picnic I had stuffed into it, and Roscoe’s harness was equally as full with little treats he could have when we reached the top so that he wasn’t feeling left out.

The route itself wasn’t a path at all. Not for people anyway. It was a worn out, well-used deer path. Where the bushes had parted, the path well trodden and the lichen and moss had struggled to grow, trampled down by hooves and later my hiking boots. It’s my go-to route whenever I feel we both need a change of scenery, and the tip of the cliff that the route winds up to was well worth the struggle uphill.

Roscoe, as always, was completely unbothered by the initial steep incline, whereas I was already huffing and puffing and rummaging around in my camera bag for a pack of Starbursts to get me up the hill. He was racing ahead, looking over his shoulder and then nosing at my thigh as if to rush me and get me up faster.

When we eventually got past the hill, the platform leveled out, and I paused for a breather. The thin, winding trees around us both were laden with lichen of all colours and shapes. Like the coral of a seabed, there were striking colours of rich mustard yellow and softer, sage green. My particular favourite, known as Old Man’s Beard lichen, was hanging prolifically from all the trees much to my excitement. The rain had soaked them through, and little droplets of water hung from the end of the tendrils, catching what light there was that morning, making the entire forest glisten.

Roscoe charged through the undergrowth, picking up the occasional clump of moss in his mouth that squelched underfoot as we continued on. It’s not an easy walk, and it’s got harder. Especially a year on from when I first naively followed the track. Vicious Scottish storms have since battered the mix of trees up on the vulnerable hilltop, one of which had fallen directly across our path and I had to crawl on my hands and knees under it to continue on.

As if the fallen trees weren’t enough to block our path, the continuous growth of Rhododendron remains a constant issue. Originally introduced to Scotland in the 18th century as an ornamental shrub, it has since completely devastated Scotland’s fragile West Coast, where its native rainforest is under serious threat. The invasive species completely chokes out the beautiful lichen and mosses that grow under the fragile and unique temperate, and it’s become even more prevalent a year on as me and Roscoe continue on the trail.

The bushes have since become almost impossible to get through. When Roscoe and I first traced the path they were just past my waist. Now, the bushes tower over me, claustrophobic and taunting. Roscoe guides me, pushing his way through and the occasional branch slaps me in the face and splatters cold raindrops onto my skin from the disturbed leaves. I fear if they continue growing, which they will undoubtedly, this track will be closed off. I can see on my left where the bushes have parted, patted down and cocooned around trodden-down lichen – evidence of a few deer lying amongst the bushes.

There’s evidence of deer all along here, though I’ve never seen a deer up on this trail we continue to follow. Surprisingly I tend to come across deer in places I’d never expect – happily plodding across main roads or in my garden in the early morning. In the summer along this track, blaeberries grow amongst the Reindeer lichen on the forest floor, which is promptly hoovered up along with Hollyleaf shoots. I often come home with fingers stained purple from eating them myself. I usually feed a couple to Roscoe, who grimaces and wrinkles his nose when he is unlucky enough to get an incredibly sour one.

Pushing past the Rhododendron tunnel, the forest opens once more. The path trails slowly around bushes of shrubs, moss-laden trees following us all the way. Roscoe found a comically large stick that he proudly shows off to the forest, trotting with his chest puffed out and a pep in his step as we near the top of the cliff, the path winding upwards gradually. Yet again, the deer have left their mark. The bigger Scots pine trees have vicious scrapes across the bark, where young bucks try to remove the scratchy velvet from their antlers in the late summer, and to mark their territory.

Finally, we reach the top. The wind is sudden and vicious after we had both been sheltered by the trees. It whips across the sea below, right up into our faces. It’s a sheer drop below, but there was evidence of some life. A single wooden slab, placed between two trees to sit on. Someone had the right idea. There are often reports of young deer that have slipped off the edge and fallen onto the rocks below, and the thought is enough to make my knees weak and to tether my rambunctious young Roscoe to a tree with the treats to distract him. I take out my own stuff from my camera bag, placing my now soaked camera into my lap as I munch on some snacks I have brought. Strands of sunlight illuminate the island opposite, cutting through the darkening sky. As far as the eye can see, there is just water and tiny random islands, not even big enough to fit a house. I scan for any dorsal fins or life within the water, but the wind whips the water enough that every crest of a wave looks like something, and I end up driving myself mad trying to squint to see if it is indeed a fin. No, just water.

Once my snacks were entirely wolfed, Roscoe cried loudly now that his treats had finished and he had realised he was tethered to the tree just to my right, and away from the sharp cliff edge I knew very well he’d happily try and climb down. I stood, my waterproof gear soaked from the wind and the rain that was starting to get heavier. I took another glance at the sea and islands around me, feeling I was somewhere in Norway or Finland. Ravens called around me, through the trees and overhead as I untethered Roscoe and he charged back through the undergrowth, away from the sheer cliff edge and back onto the deer trail.

His nose snuffled for Red Squirrels, nosing at pinecones that were dropped onto the forest floor as we retraced our steps back towards the Rhododendron tunnel and the fallen tree. Though no Red Squirrels were chased by Roscoe today, I myself could see a couple jumping gracefully between lichen-laden branches. A flash of auburn red, a flicker of a tail. And then, like a very cute, chewed grenade, a pinecone was dropped into the bushes below. Every time one dropped, Roscoe’s already massive ears shot forwards like satellite dishes, and he charged through the bushes to check it out.

Rolling my eyes and shaking my head at his usual antics, I trudged back home, the rain getting harder and Roscoe getting more exasperated as the Red Squirrels teased him from above.

The Looming Threat of Rain

The snow had remained on the mountains before me and Roscoe. Black clouds and distant sheet rain maintained a constant threat on the horizon.

The sea switched from calm to churning within seconds, but upon us arriving at our little hidden cove we were instantly rewarded with a brief but great view of an otter whilst the sun was out… all for about two seconds before hell let loose. The walk there itself wasn’t entirely pleasant. The trip was mostly all hail, the tiny kind that find little gaps in your winter clothes. The kind that stuck to Roscoe’s black pelt like a midnight sky.

I was freezing once again within a few minutes when I perched on my usual rock. Roscoe, ever restless, lumbered down to the churning dark water and then immediately ran as fast as he could over seaweed and rock when a large spray was aimed right for him, ears back and brown eyes wide with horror. My laugh had certainly scared most life away, if they had been out at all with the bad weather.

However, when I had eventually settled and Roscoe decided to wade into much calmer waters, the weather did decide to stay away from me for the duration of my time sat down. Sort of. I placed down my camera bag and binoculars, and tried to spot any life. Opposite me were two seals slumped on the rock, and peering at them through my binoculars I could see one in particular squeezing his eyes shut and bracing each time a spray of cold sea water slapped him in the face. Poor sod.

Apprehensively getting my camera out, I took another scope of my surroundings and yet again brooding black clouds circled me and Roscoe like a pack of dogs, snarling and spitting. I paused, deciding if it’s worth even taking the camera out, but Roscoe didn’t seem bothered at all, deciding a strand of seaweed was the best toy he’d ever seen. His big shambling body attempted to articulate over slippery rocks as he tossed the strand of seaweed into the air and then bolted after it when the high winds whipped it far out of reach.

Any attempts to take pictures of anything seemed futile. The light wasn’t the best and the dark clouds seemed to be crawling closer. Sheet rain fell over the smaller islands on the horizon. To my left, a male Shell duck bolted over the black sea, but my camera lens was spotted with rain and wind and so the duck was all but a white blob against other rain blobs that had started to now fall.

I admitted defeat, putting my gear back into my bag and hurled it over my shoulder, calling a now very sodden Roscoe to my side. In true Shepherd fashion he cried up at me, wanting to get up and moving again. He hates me being stationary for more than five seconds. I treaded over seaweed and wet rocks, and gave a final look over my shoulder to see the rain had just about cleared for a striking rainbow to curl itself over the island opposite.

I cursed, dropping my bag to grab my camera and run over lethal mounds of grass and rock to get a good enough position, but it was fading fast. I took a few pictures, but it faded quickly. I’ll take it.

The biting cold pushed me away again, and I tried to find my green camera bag amongst the green grass, which seemed impossible for five minutes in what was now torrential rain.

Grumbling, I followed a giddy Roscoe back down the mud trail towards the main path back home. So much for Spring weather.