WEEKS 14-22
February to March 2013
AS ALWAYS, work comes calling and a few days later and I am out on a photo-shoot in Govan. The snow has gone, if it was ever here at all, and the temperature feels almost spring-like. Spring-like for Scotland, that is, although the youth of Govan seem completely unfazed by the cold anyway. Govan is one of the places I have on my list for this project, but today is not the day to do it - I have only an hour or so here before the photos I have been taking need to be with my client in Edinburgh. Work places demands on us all, and I have no time to linger.
Luckily, though, I arrive 20 minutes before my shoot is due to start and take the time to have a quick exploration of the local streets. It's quiet, but I soon spot three lads sitting on some steps. I ask them if I can take a quick photo, which they are fine with, and instantly they go into character. Usually, in fact almost always, I prefer to capture people acting completely naturally. The very act of pointing a camera at someone, however, usually makes this impossible. The phrase 'just act natural' is almost impossible to deliver on. However, the three Govan lads quickly get bored of posing and the image I take is of them as they are, and it is really all I could have asked for. Even at this early stage of my project I suspect I will be lucky to get a better shot. Sometimes all the planning in the world can't rival a spur-of-the-moment event. In this, photography is no different to any other facet of life - you make your own luck, and often it can make you, too. If you're lucky.
WEEK 13
The Govan lads, Glasgow
One of the pleasures in doing a project like this is that I now have the perfect excuse to visit all the areas of Scotland I have always wanted to see. The Ardnamurchan peninsula is a perfect example. Years ago I read Alasdair Maclean's beautiful account of life in a crofting community in his book, Night Falls on Ardnamurchan. On another occasion I sat on a Mull beach as evening came, looking out over the water to the darkness engulfing Ardnamurchan and once more felt the pull.
WEEK 14
The foghorn at Ardnamurchan Point
WEEK 14
Ardnamurchan Lighthouse
Years have gone by since then, and as I drive my car onto the Corran Ferry for the short trip over to the peninsula, I am as happy to be here right now as I would be anywhere else on the planet. The mountains before me look quiet and tranquil in the soft morning light. One of the ferry-hands assures me it will be glorious weather. The ferry berths at the slipway and I am quickly on my way, past the old Corran lighthouse on my left, into the wilderness. Into the west.
First and foremost I have come here because this is the most westerly point on the Scottish (and British) mainland. Ardnamurchan Point, with its lighthouse, is about half a mile from Corrachadh Mòr, the true westerly point. I trudge over the rough ground to the point and stand for a while looking west towards the Atlantic Ocean, as so many must have done before me.
I return to the lighthouse to take some photos. The low winter sun picking out the contours and the ridges in the land makes for ideal conditions. I am the only one here and the only sounds are the seabirds, the waves and the wind. Occasionally a low moan can be heard as the wind brings the old foghorn to brief life. It is only a pale shadow of the sound the foghorn once made, but its melancholy note is a perfect accompaniment to nature's backbeat.
With almost comical timing, when I return to the car and try to start the engine, nothing happens. The sun is sinking slowly and the colour and the light are bleeding from the land all around. I try again. A cough and a splutter and the dashboard suddenly resembles an '80s arcade game, with every light flashing and an insistent beep telling me, in case I hadn't realised, that something isn't quite right.
I am possibly in one of the remotest parts of the UK. I haven't seen another human being for hours. I passed a few houses some miles back, but as it's getting dark, I don't really fancy the walk. I could always phone the AA. if my phone reception hadn't disappeared many hours back. There is only one thing for it. I pop the bonnet, prop it open, and stare utterly mystified at what I see before me. I tap a few things, mutter to myself a bit and replace the hood. I give the front tyre a hefty kick as I walk past. I try the ignition again, and without missing a beat, the engine starts. The dashboard is as quiet and well-ordered as a limpid pool. I am fairly sure it was the kicking of the tyre that did the trick.
WEEK 14
Camas nan Geall, Ardnamurchan
WEEK 14
On the road, Ardnamurchan
I don't hang around and head nervously back along the narrow road to the bright lights of Grigadale (population: ten). The road widens to give me about a foot on either side and I feel like I am on a superhighway. The car behaves, and before long I am well on my way through the quiet villages of Kilchoan, Salen, Glenborrodale and finally Strontian, where in the hills to the north the element strontium was first discovered.
I have spent only a day, in reality only a few hours, in Ardnamurchan and I have already fallen for the place. It is lovely and remote, but there is something else here, something indefinable that flutters at the edge of thought, which I know will bring me back here one day.
Away from the dream worlds of Ardnamurchan and it is back to the reality of life. I am now well into my project and it is beginning to take on a life of its own. The Scotsman has been in touch to serialise it on a weekly basis. I now have a firm deadline every week when they need the images and the accompanying words, and this is the best thing that could have happened. Like so many, it is a looming deadline that so often sparks me into action.
WEEK 15
Loch of Lindores, Fife
I crisscross the central belt. I am in Ayr as the sun sets behind the harbour. I am at the Loch of Lindores in Fife on a fine winter's morning to watch the fishermen out on the water. On Buchanan Street in Glasgow, a boy circles the old police box in the hope that possibly, just possibly, it may actually be the Tardis.
WEEK 15
Ayr harbour
Police box in Glasgow - the Tardis?
Now it is a cold and wet Saturday night in Edinburgh. Down a quiet street the lights of a fish and chip shop illuminate the greasy pavement. It is a beacon in the dark. Inside it is warm, and people scurry through the door to escape the damp. No vinegar on these Edinburgh chips - it is that strange brown sauce so beloved by the people of the Capital that coat these fried potatoes. I've lived in Edinburgh for years and I still can't stand the stuff. I'll never be accepted till I do. I pass by the same shop a few days later and it is dark. Boarded up. The last fish battered and the last chip fried. I wander off, thinking of eulogies for fallen fast food shops, but can only come up with 'frying off to bluer skies' so I stop and go home instead.
WEEK 16
Fish and chip shop in Edinburgh
WEEK 17
Fancy dress party, Musselburgh
In a function room, through the back of a large bar in Musselburgh, a fancy dress party is in full swing. In a far corner I am fairly sure I can see Mary Poppins getting very personal with Alex from A Clockwork Orange. Katy Perry stumbles past to say hello before wandering off on her merry way. At one point I am convinced I am talking to The Joker only to be huffily informed that I am actually talking to one of the members of Kiss. He can't remember the name of who he is supposed to be but 'it's the one with the big tongue'. I think for a second that the even the barman is in costume, but on closer inspection he is no Wolverine. He is just hairy.
WEEK 18
National Museum of Scotland, Edinburgh
I ask the host of the party (I pray he is dressed as Harry Potter and not Heinrich Himmler) if I can take some photos and end up being stuck there for quite some time, such is the desire of the partygoers to be photographed in their post-apocalyptic finery.
An altogether more tranquil fancy dress event is taking place at the National Museum of Scotland. Every so often a party is laid on to mark the launch of a major new exhibition. As the forthcoming exhibition is on the Vikings, this is the theme for the event and the crowds that mill round the lovely old building reflect this. Horned and bearded warriors sip glasses of Chardonnay, and blonde pigtailed Scandinavian wenches check their phones and queue up for the optional face painting. Bands play, and dancing girls circle the balconies above like Valkyries. It's all great fun and Potter/Himmler would have been in his element.
WEEK 19
'Maggie Wall Burnt Here', Dunning, Perthshire
Mark McDonnell, Edinburgh
By the side of a quiet B Road, a few miles to the east of Dunning in the rolling Perthshire countryside, stands a monument with the inscription 'Maggie Wall burnt here 1657 as a Witch'. I have photographed here before but have returned to see if any changes have occurred in the five or so years since I last visited. Nothing is different, and the inscription looks as fresh and newly painted as before. Exactly who keeps those words...
