An unworldly racket tore the darkness asunder, attempting to wrench me from sleep. The morning alarm always brought an immediate sense of wounded panic, made worse by my helpless attempts to bludgeon whatever device was causing the unwelcome intrusion back into submission so that I could return to my silent warm cocoon in peace. Of course today was different, but the initial want of comprehension that the opening seconds of wakefulness bring hadn’t yet given way to the dawning recognition of an adventure lying in wait for us. I pushed every button on the phone to try and persuade it into silence, eventually and by chance succeeding, but only for the alarm to herald the new morning again just a handful of minutes later. Somewhere amid those slumbering seconds a silent voice inside my head had reminded me – we were in Glencoe and the moment we’d all been so excited about for months and months was at hand. If we wanted to seize the moment, we needed to get out of bed right now. In an attempt to kick start things into action I reached for the light switch. In one corner of the hostel dormitory room, it seemed Lee had just gained consciousness, while in another, a head full of grey shaggy hair groaned and disappeared beneath the duvet. Rousing Dave for the early start might prove to be a bit more of a challenge. I took my chances and headed for the shower before either of them was ready to move. Outside the window lay an untouched white wilderness, waiting for us to don our winter wardrobes and live a moment like moments are supposed to be lived.
I think it was the first time I’d stumbled across Thomas Heaton’s channel on YouTube. His February visit to a snowy Glencoe had captured the imagination and, in my excitement, I’d harangued my co- conspirators endlessly until we were unanimous. Flights were booked, budget friendly accommodation sourced and car hire arranged. It would be almost a year before we’d arrive here, but the seeds had been sewn; to Scotland we would boldly go in darkest winter, taking our chances with whatever the weather might throw at us. During the intervening months, plans for a number of locations were hatched, researched, polished, abandoned and reawakened, but all the time the thought of the morning on the mountainside overlooking Scotland’s most photographed summit at sunrise remained at the very top of the agenda. Whatever else we did, we were going to walk up the side of neighbouring Beinn a Chrulaiste and witness the world dawning over Buachaille Etive Mor, the Great Herdsman at the gateway to the mythical Glencoe. That was the done deal upon which we were in complete assent; the moment that we talked about over and over again in those idle hours in the pub after summer evenings out and about with the cameras at home.
And now we were here, heading towards the foot of the mountain, just a couple of miles from the hostel. As the first hint of daylight began to pierce the gloom we blundered our way through the snow, occasionally sinking beyond our knees into unseen drifts, now and then startling the odd unsuspecting sheep, and gradually making progress up the steep slope. We’d given ourselves plenty of time to ensure we’d gain sufficient altitude before sunrise, but that didn’t arrest the sense of urgency in getting up there as fast as we could possibly manage on the unwelcoming terrain. After all, when might we get a chance such as this again, especially with the conditions as they were? When you live in West Cornwall, getting to the Scottish Highlands is more than a bit of a trek to say the least. Even our friends in the North of England have several hours of driving ahead of them to get here – for us in the far south west you can add another day on the motorway just to arrive at the place they started from.
Some time afterwards, we reached a crest. Hundreds of feet of altitude still tapered towards the invisible summit above us but we’d arrived at a point where the A82 stretched all the way across Rannoch Moor to the south, and snaked a sweeping curve towards the Three Sisters of Glencoe in the north-west. There was still some time before the sunrise to capture the soft pinkly lit landscape beneath us. Time to stand and gaze at the white mountains in front of us. Where we live there are no mountains, and even in our fifties we can count the times when snow fell and settled on the ground on the fingers of one hand. This was the moment we’d wanted; the moment that delivered, in a country where so much more often than not the remorseless weather gods lay waste to carefully laid plans. Who’d have imagined we’d actually get what we’d hoped for when we’re so used to an unexpected band of cloud arriving at the last moment to spoil the party? The sun soon arrived and lit the side of the mountain, turning the pastel pinks into a golden morning. A few hours later much of the snow would be gone, a spell of clear dry weather to follow, ensuring that we’d had the best of the conditions on our very first morning in the Highlands. It was a good job that our excitement and impatience to stand over this view brought us here before we went anywhere else.
Back in 2018 I was still in the unfortunate habit of deleting my raw files once I’d edited them. It’s strange to think I did that now, but this may have been the adventure that brought the practice to an end, because I kept the lot of them on this occasion; even the ones I didn’t like, or simply ignored in my haste to edit the chosen few. This is one of the overlooked images that I took and immediately forgot on that incomparable morning. What’s exciting is to be able to look through them all again later and spot things I’d missed before; to edit others again and see whether I’ve learned anything useful in the intervening years. I wonder what the outcome will be when I have another go in the future. Who knows? It’s fun finding out in any case.
Photography for me is all about the moments and the memories I’m instantly transported to when I browse the archive. So many of them bring a smile, while others find me reliving more difficult moments when things were going less well in life. Just a few of them return me to a state of utter and joyful abandonment. Times such as the hilarity of trying to get a shot of myself standing in front of the mighty Skogafoss whilst getting drenched to the skin, or watching the waves wash over the ice floes at Diamond Beach and losing all track of time under the Icelandic midnight sun, or the moment when the post sunset glow broke into countless layers of orange and magenta streaks one August evening at my beloved Godrevy all spring to mind. But this is still the moment that we talk about most of all. It was four years ago on this very day in fact. It’s why we take photographs. It’s why we go to places that we wouldn’t otherwise think of and get out of bed at silly o’clock to stand on the side of a mountain before breakfast in the middle of winter. It’s why we are forever losing ourselves in daydreams over the next big adventure.
Another jolly boys’ field trip beckons quite soon. It won’t be quite as dramatic as a wintry mountain wonderland, but it’ll be fun to spend time together, fully immersed in the landscape photography bubble, making plans, dreaming of sunsets and eating things that are banned the rest of the time when our better halves are in control of our diets. Whether we get any jaw dropping photos remains to be seen, but that would just be the cherry on top of an already bulging cake, wouldn’t it?
