Solitude and silence

Solitude is what draws me to the mountains. And the space. And the silence.

More often than not, I go alone. Our dog Brèagh comes, and I talk to her and wonder what goes through her mind.

Does she think about the silence as much as I do, though she can hear things I can’t? Will she think of the views when we’re home and when she’s sleeping?

I study her as she looks into the distance, hoping she’s lost in her own thoughts, as I am lost in mine. Or is she only thinking of the chicken breasts she knows are in my bag?

In the moments we stop to take it all in, her ears move around like the antennae on Doctor Who’s K9, constantly scanning her surroundings and processing the noises made by the movement – often far away - of a mountain hare, or a sheep or other walkers.

I went to London recently and reflected that for many people, real silence – the kind that holds you close - is not possible. There’s always a car or a crowd or a lawnmower (as there is right now) humming away somewhere nearby.

I will never take it for granted and I’m willing to walk for miles, to clamber hundreds of metres up mountains, with far too many cameras on my back, to find it.

When I do, I appreciate every moment of it. Leaving it behind, coming down, is difficult but I think of these special moments a lot and those long adventures with Brèagh are as good for my head as they are for my heart.

The photographs you find here represent my attempt to do a small measure of justice to the things I see. Strangers, mountain tops, lochs, waterfalls, mist and cloud, sunsets, and sunrises.

I don’t believe it will ever be possible to capture the scale of it – the raw, jaw-dropping beauty of some of it – but I am merely keeping a record of where I’ve been and I hope the images I have here provide some enjoyment and perhaps the inspiration to explore.