The online presence of Tim Collier. Photographer, course leader, lecturer and blogger.
Fortunately the rain continued in the afternoon, which meant Glen Orchy would be alive. Rain lifts and freshens a landscape and I’m more than happy to work in and with it. At his time of year, early November, the autumn was in full flow with a riot of colour. To get the falling rain to show in the images a slowish shutter speed is needed and a long lens helps too.
This was a place we found by simply driving to the end of what was possible. We’d been down all the small roads off the road north from Kinlochbervie; Oldshoremore, Droman, the wonderful Bagh a’ Phollain.
Since Mum and Dad visited Cape Wrath (the most north westerly outreach of the British mainland) in the late eighties I’ve always wanted to follow in their footsteps. Continue reading
I’m currently reading ‘The Nature of Autumn’ by one of our greatest nature writers Jim Crumley, seems apt just now, and came across a small piece about nature’s national flag and Mark Rothko. In my previous post ‘Clarity, Colour and Emptiness’ the last image could easily have accompanied Crumley’s thoughts on, ‘the triple expanses of sand and open sea and open sky’
We walked onto the small stone jetty at Droman, a couple of miles north of Kinlochbervie, and were struck at once by the phenomenal clarity of the water and the breathtaking colours that were refracted through its glass like qualities.
A last post on the Kylebhan series and a one unashamedly celebrating colour’s relationship with age and weathering. The next series of posts will not be necessarily chronological, but will all be related to the five weeks we spent in the high north after the Kylebhan experience.
Our home for the week was MV Kylebhan. It had a character all of its own and one that will stay with us all for many a year. It was built as a trawler in the 60’s but converted to carry 12 passengers soon after.
Our third day and not much progress towards St.Kilda but all enjoying the Inner Hebrides and the uncertainty of where we would be mooring the next night. This evening we found ourselves in one of the remotest places in Scotland, Inverie on Knoydart, only accessible by foot or boat.
I have read and been told that the road out of depression is one of ups and downs, with the ups slowly outweighing the downs.
We were lucky with the weather for a new series of walks with Caerphilly Countryside Services that started on Saturday, as I write this now there’s thunder around and some seriously heavy rain!
There are a few occasions when light seems more, much more than simply the everyday occurrence that we take for granted.
I encountered an unusual space the other day, one that’s around us as an island everywhere but curiously one that very few experience.
The relationship between the cliff top and the sea has always fascinated me. The space that divides the two is somewhere we rarely venture. I’m not a rock climber and even then you’re still grounded, all be it to a near vertical incline.
Much of my work over the years has been coastal, it’s somewhere were so much is going on; so many processes and changes, it’s continual and in constant flux and has the capacity to take you into a different space and time.
The hour and a half Brendan and I spent on the beach with the tide pushing us back towards the cliffs took me back to my work at Druidston in Pembrokeshire (more posts to follow).
I’ve always been an avid collector of books and despite now owning a Kindle (they do have some advantages), I’ll keep collecting. You commune with books, they become part of you and immersion within them is an experience that is at times intensely personal.
