Photo of the month: January 2025

As an incentive to keep getting out into the landscape I had planned this year to do a ‘photo of the month’ blog, telling the story of my favourite photos. So here I am, March already, just getting started. Ah well, better late than never.

The weather, as ever, has been a little upside down. January and February are supposed to be Winter months, while March heralds the start of Spring. Yet early March has proved much colder than most of our Winter.

The first contender for photo of the month was made on January 8th, on the beautiful strand at Portstewart, about six miles from our home. I had simply gone down to the coast for a walk, but the position of the winter sun and of the tide were just perfect for photographing the famous warning sign.

Sony A7RV, 24-70 at 68mm, f16, .5 sec, ISO 100, tripod and using a 3 stop ND filter to slow the shutter speed.

As the sign is at the steps leading to the cliff path, it was fun trying to time the photo to capture the wave movement, part of the reflection, the sun’s emergence from behind clouds while at the same time avoiding the many walkers who were on the strand that day. I was happy with the result, especially as it is one of our local icons, which will always remind Heather and me of long strolls together on the strand - and an occasional ice cream (for the grandkids, of course!)

One of the great things about coastal photography is that conditions are always changing. And so it was that later in January I witnessed the strand at its most serene.

Sony A7R5, 24-70, 24mm, f16, .8sec, ISO 80, tripod using 3 stop ND filter.

This is the first time I have seen lenticular clouds over the coast. The only thing that reminded me it wasn’t summer was the temperature! (Note the empty beach!) And of course the position of the sun. I slowed down the shutter speed to capture some of the wave action, standing far enough from the water’s edge to include cloud reflections amongst the ripples in the sand that this beach is famous for. And of course I wanted to include Mussenden Temple as a feature in the composition.

Sony A7RV, 24-70, 24mm, f11, ¼ sec, ISO 100, tripod, 3 stop ND

As usual I made more photos than I really needed! Perhaps it is that there is something very satisfying about pressing the shutter. This particular photo is really all about the lenticular clouds, which at this point were beginning to merge before disappearing. I loved the way one stretched across the horizon so decided it would look best in a panoramic format.

Normally either of the first two photos would have made it to number one for the month. Except that on one glorious day we had snow.

It depends, of course, on how you like snow. I love it for landscape photography. It simplifies everything, covering a multitude of sins. When it snows, which it rarely does here, I try my best to get out with the camera.

It so happened that the snow’s brief visit coincided with our weekly opportunity to look after grandchildren, so we set out earlier than usual to give time to explore some of the country roads in North Antrim along the way.

Sony A7RV, 24-70, 24mm, f11, 1/80 sec, ISO 400, handheld.

I love tree-lined roads, They remind me of the grandkids, who would always shout “tree tunnel” when they came across a scene like this. I also love the way beech leaves hang around until they are replaced in the Spring, providing a splash of gold in the scene. Most of all, I love the way the snow momentarily transforms the twigs and branches into white lace.

Sony A7RV, 24-70, 35mm, f8, 1/60, ISO 100

I don’t know the name of the road and I’m not even sure if I could find my way back here again. But the frozen clumps of snow covered grass, each blade sharp and distinct, graceful trees of white lace, against the dark backdrop of a snow laden sky, with a sudden life-giving ray of sunshine, were a compelling mixture. The building hiding in the background adds a bonus of mystery.

Again I would have been happy to choose one of these as my photo of the month, until later that same day.

As we drove over The Collin on our way to Ballyclare, I noticed heavy fog was flooding the valley, concealing Slemish Mountain from view. “Perhaps the fog will lift?” I wondered. “And perhaps the sun might appear before sunset?”

The kids dutifully collected, fed their assortment of Thursday treats and now under Heather’s watchful gaze as she supervised their homework, I slipped away (with her full agreement, of course!) and headed back up to the lay-by at top of The Collin.

On this (rare) occasion, my photographic daydreams came true.

Sony A7RV, Sigma 100-400, 194mm, f9.5, 1/350 sec, ISO800, handheld.

I have photographed Slemish many times. Indeed my first landscape photography shoot was of this mountain, on that occasion under a rainbow. I have also photographed it in the snow before. But I have never had such good conditions: fog, snow, sunset light and clouds.

This was not a hard photo to make. It required a little planning. But once on location, no hiking was involved. The only danger to life was from passing traffic as I photographed from the side of the road. But having to work hard for a photograph is not the only thing that makes a photograph meaningful.

I was brought up in County Armagh, as was Heather. This is not the landscape of my youth. But it is part of the landscape of our marriage, our family, our teaching careers and in the past 15 or so years my engagement in photography. I have driven here many times, walked its slopes, or simply sat in the car, thinking, preparing talks or just taking to sip coffee and be still, This small mountain, a volcanic plug, that stands proud of the surrounding farmland, is, according to legend, where St Patrick cared for sheep as he came to know the living God. Our history is entwined with it. We look for it each time we cross The Collin. It will always have a deep place in my heart. For these reasons, this is my photo of the month for January 2025. .

Aurora

Have you ever seen the movie Frequency? A sci-fi thriller, shot 24 years ago, featuring Dennis Quaid and Jim Caviezel as a father and son in which, due to an ‘atmospheric anomaly’, the detective son has the opportunity to reach back through time to change the tragedy that befell his firefighter father thirty years previously. The atmospheric anomaly was the Aurora Borealis.

Now while the billions of watts generated by the solar wind in a display of the aurora can indeed interfere with power lines and satellite communications, the idea that they can also enable interaction across time is scientifically ridiculous. But it is a great movie and remains one of our favourites. While I knew about the Northern Lights, seeing them in the movie created a desire to witness them for myself.

At the time I had no idea that they could be seen from Northern Ireland. I’ve learned since, both in 2014 and in even more spectacular fashion in May of this year. (See my blogpost ‘A night under the dancing lights)'.

Back in May many commented that this was a once in a lifetime experience. While that was true since all experiences of the Aurora (or of anything else for that matter) are unique, on October 10th it happened again.

My decision to head out in May was last minute. This time I was prepared. Which was particularly important as I really wanted one of my photography companions, who had never seen the Aurora, to experience it for himself.

The beach at Castlerock

As I drove to pick him up I stopped for a few moments at the beach at Castlerock, set my tripod on the sand and took a couple of test shots. Green was everywhere! But so were clouds. It was starting to rain as I made my shots.

Undaunted we set out, deciding to go to Mussenden Temple, the iconic landmark dating back to the late 18th Century and the eccentric Earl Bishop Frederick Hervey (he was Earl of Bristol and Bishop of Derry). The ‘Temple’ was originally built as his library, modelled on the Temple of Vesta in Italy and is one of the most photographed buildings in Ireland. Its precarious position, perched on a cliff edge overlooking the North Atlantic adds to the drama.

The ruins of the Bishop’s home, Downhill House, still stand and we made our first stop there.

Downhill House

It was still raining but the green was really strong in the sky and we could see that the clouds were clearing in the north west. So we decided to head down to the Temple.

Apart from the weather, I knew that the biggest challenge we were likely to face in making our photographs was the presence of other photographers. The road had been well lined with cars when we parked up and it seemed that there were torches, headlamps and mobile screens wherever we looked.

If you look carefully you can detect that we were not alone!

Of course every person there had the same right as we had to enjoy the spectacle. And not everyone understands the different needs of the photographers who want to photograph the spectacle and those who want to take selfies. However, to stand in the view simply texting… Ah well. We are grateful for the opportunity to cultivate patience (as well as for generative fill in Lightroom!). As they say, if you can’t beat them, join them. So we politely manoeuvred our way to get what we could. And it was great!

Just after 10pm we could see with the naked eye that additional colours were filling the sky above the Temple. I don’t do video. That’s a whole separate skill set that I haven’t yet acquired. A pity, as it is only via video that the waves of colourful movement above our heads could be represented. You will just need to imagine it. The sky was in constant motion, with the result that of a thousand photos of the event none would be the same.

Of all the photos I made that evening I think this is my favourite. I like the drama in the sky - it was most intense in this part. I like the light in the window, the silhouette of the railings at the steps and the distant lights on the shore of Inishowen - the sense of a greater reality above and beyond the confines of our homes, the importance of getting out of the house and looking up.

Tiredness was now taking its toll. I knew that if we stayed out it was likely that there would be another eruption of the ‘lights’. And so it proved. But my friend and I had had our moment. I asked him how he felt as we ambled back up the path towards the ruined house. “Rather overwhelmed” he said quietly. We walked on in awestruck silence.

We stopped for a few moments once again at the house. The display had faded but was still quietly beautiful and we made our final shot.

I went home deeply grateful. That the skies had cleared. That the Aurora had danced so spectacularly. That my friend had witnessed it. And that I had looked further up, and further in.

That was more than enough.

A Walk on the Wild Side: Radnor Lake

A few miles from where our eldest daughter lives in Nashville, among richly forested hillsides, lies Radnor Lake. With its abundance of wildlife, firm pathways, and many marked woodland trails, it is a marvellous place to walk at any time of year. Especially marvellous with four excited grandkids for company. And so it happened that on the Sunday morning of Labor Day weekend, before church, we set out on a mini adventure.

Charlotte's Hawk

“What’s that?’ Charlotte said as we made our way from the car park on the path that led to the lake. I had seen nothing, too busy ensuring that the camera settings were correct. She pointed upwards to the left of the path. And there about 10 metres away sat a beautiful Red-tailed Hawk, totally untroubled by our presence. He posed long enough for me to take his portrait before with a languid flap of his wings he glided further into the forest. What a start to our hunt for wildlife!

A few moments later excited chatter from the girls indicated another precious find: a turtle (they are called Pond Sliders) enjoying the heat of the morning sun.

A Red-eared Pond Slider basking in the morning sun.

More turtles followed, taking advantage of handy logs to slip in and out of the water. These Red-eared Pond Sliders are the most popular pet turtle in the United States. Cries of “They’re so cute! Can I take one home?” were studiously ignored by all adults present and thankfully our walk continued along the southern shore of the lake as another discovery was made. A slim, elegant Double-crested Cormorant posed in the strengthening sunlight, drying rapidly after a successful fish breakfast.

Double-crested Cormorant

My eye was drawn to a commotion out in the middle of the lake. The 200-600 lens was just enough to capture what was going on: another cormorant wrestling with a large fish.

Breakfast!

In the hope that I might make it to Radnor I had decided to bring my biggest lens with me. In order to make this possible we had to share our hand luggage and so my long-suffering wife carried the large, heavy lens bag on and off four flights!

By this time the heat was beginning to make its presence felt and for most the adventure gave way to the thought of shade and cold drinks, leaving five adults to complete the circuit of the lake. In order to get to church on time we had to pick up the pace, which isn’t conducive for spotting wildlife, but we still managed some good sightings.

Wood Duck

A pair of Wood Duck were preening themselves on a tree that had tilted to an alarming angle across the water. Then a chip monk scuttled into a patch of sunlight as we moved away from the lakeside. This was followed by a flock of Wild Turkeys, always a fun sight.

A Chipmunk accompanied us on our walk.

Wild Turkey

Finally, as the path wound back down to the lake side, a special moment: a Great Blue Heron standing tall close to the water’s edge,

Great Blue Heron

I decided to return on my own very early the following morning, in the hope of seeing the Bald Eagles that nest at Radnor. The promised unbroken sunshine failed to materialise, replaced by murky, misty conditions. As I stepped out of the taxi I wondered if I had been guilty of poor judgement, especially as I immediately discovered there was no phone signal in the woods. How was I going to order a taxi back to the hotel?

Much to my relief, as I got closer to the lake the signal returned and so I could focus on making the most of the couple of hours before having to go back.

One of the Radnor otters

I wasn’t the only photographer hoping to capture something special. Many of the locals were out, all of them very friendly and willing to share tips and sightings with a stranger. “There’s a hawk just ahead on the left” one lady told me as she continued her photo walk. “There’s an otter’s den on the bank under there” said another, camera poised. And sure enough a splash confirmed it as an otter swam into view.

A bird I had never seen before sped across the lake. I managed a few photos and then asked another photographer what it was. “It’s a Killdeer”, he told me after viewing the image on the back of my camera.

Killdeer

And so it continued. “I’m trying to photograph the mink - did you hear them?” So that’s what all the rustling was along the bank. “Last week a young lad photographed a polecat taking a duck.” “The eagles were up yesterday but I haven’t seen them.”

A little boy shouted excitedly to his parents, “Look, it’s a hummingbird.” The blessing of young eyes once again! I waited until they passed me on the path and looked for myself. Sure enough, a Ruby-throated Hummingbird was flitting in its staccato fashion through the branches searching for the last of the summer nectar.

Ruby-throated Hummingbird

The flight of the Great Blue Heron

Wildlife photography demands many qualities. One is the ability to wait. Another is being ready. Many minutes would go by when there was nothing to see. Then suddenly a Green Heron was flying across the lake almost directly towards me, giving me only a second or two to raise the camera, focus, compose and take a few exposures before it disappeared into the undergrowth at the water’s edge. Fortunately it chose a branch close by for its perch and I was able to photograph it framed by the leaves.

The flight of the Green Heron

The Green Heron reminds me for all the world of a punk rocker! At 600mm, ISO 6000, 1/640 sec at f6.3.

Some White Tailed Deer emerged from the forest for a drink.

The light was challengingly low. As a landscape photographer I am never comfortable photographing at more than ISO 800 but that was certainly not going to work here., especially for birds in flight. So for only the second time in my life I set the camera to ISO AUTO and concentrated on choosing the best shutter speed for the particular photo. I was amazed to discover that even at ISO 6000 the photo of the Green Heron was so sharp and clean.

Opposite me across the lake I noticed that some deer had emerged from the forest for a drink. In addition, a smaller bird was creating a great deal of noise with its piercing chatter. So I added the 1.4 converter to the 200-600 lens to see if with a reach of 840mm I could make some distant photos. Photographing the White Tailed deer was relatively straitforward, but the noisy bird took a little more work. Seeing it through the lens I realised that it was a Belted Kingfisher, another variety we don’t have in Ireland and a first sighting for me.

Belted Kingfisher

A flock of Green-winged Teal (I think!) at the opposite side of the lake. ISO12800, 840mm, 1/1250 sec at f9

All the time I was scanning the far bank for sightings of the Bald Eagles. Sadly none appeared. It was hard to feel disappointed after so many wildlife encounters. And I hope to be back!

The Bald Eagles of Radnor, photographed on a previous visit.

Bald Eagle flying over Radnor Lake

My thoughts were starting to turn to lunch and finding transport back when, reaching the end of lakeside trail I looked up and saw a large group of black vultures perched in the tree above my head. I decided to head for the carpark before their minds turned to lunch!

Conversations with Creation

It was my mother who left the door ajar. I was 4 or 5 at the time, watching her weed the rockery at home while our resident robin flitted around her in a hesitant dance. And suddenly I found myself pulled into a conversation with echoes back to Eden and those first excited evening reflections on the discoveries of the day.

Eurasian Robin. Not of course the one who befriended my mother, but a distant descendant that accompanied a doctor friend and me through the grounds of Antrim Castle.

A robin. Why was it called that? Why didn’t it fly away like all the other birds did when I was around? What did it eat? Could it understand my mum when she talked to it?

Snowcapped Robin

Watching and listening to the birds in our garden, the rare sight of a red squirrel in the Scotch Pines, hunting for mushrooms, spotting the fish in the local stream, collecting and pressing wildflowers (it was legal back then) for primary school, collecting caterpillars to watch their metamorphosis. Folders stuffed with pictures, bird and flower identifications, naming of parts, Enid Blyton nature stories, endless questions and searching along the track of the abandoned railway line for a rare orchid. I even had an ant colony (two sheets of glass in a wooden frame, filled with soil and sand) and spent long hours watching their remarkable industry.

A Red Admiral feeding on Sea Holly, one of the plants that takes me back to my childhood garden

The conversation faded for a time, while something called ‘real life’ took over. It was as if the dance had moved to a distant corner of the room without ever quite going away. Names were forgotten, but the music remained. And then came the digital revolution and the possibility of entering the conversation again, this time through a camera lens. The dance swept me up with it and hasn’t let me go since.

Barred Owl. First surviving digital bird photo, from woods outside Cleveland, Ohio.

I began to take a telephoto lens with me on my travels. Family trips to California, Florida and Tennessee, speaking trips to England, South Africa and Transylvania became opportunities to seek and photograph some of the more exotic wildlife that I had only seen in the pages of National Geographic Magazine or in some of the BBC wildlife programmes. Other fields always seemed greener.

Brown Pelican, Santa Barbara, California

It wasn’t until ‘lockdown’ (an ugly name for an uglier thing) that I began to pay attention to what was around me, and especially to the birds in our garden. I decided to make photographing garden birds my project during those restricted time.

Chaffinches in the snow, waiting for crumbs to fall from the bird feeder.

I’ve never been any good at DIY but I managed to rig up a feeding station and a perch and using our garden house as a hide, I began to document the birds that visited our garden. I was surprised at the variety: in addition to the robin (every garden has a robin) and the chaffinches, we had starlings, blackbirds, siskin, dunnocks, wagtails, house sparrows, swallows, house martins, collared doves, wrens, blue tits, great tits, gold finches, jackdaws, rooks, magpies, coal tits, and some rare visits from redpolls, greenfinches and a brambling. Missing were birds of prey, although buzzards patrolled the fields nearby, thrushes, bull finches, gold crests, long tailed tits and water fowl, as we didn’t have a pond.

The magnificent, multi-coloured plumage of the starling.

Blue tit in the snow.

Taking pictures of largely static birds (birds on a stick) was (and still is) really enjoyable. But I wanted to photograph birds actually doing something! And so was born the desire to photograph birds in flight.

Goldfinch

Thankfully, digital is very forgiving! It took hundreds of attempts before I managed a sharp photo and several thousand before I managed any that had artistic merit. No wonder I had stayed away from bird photography in the days of film!

A siskin coming into land while warning off competitors.

Great tit.

A swallow swooping low over our neighbour's roof in pursuit of the next meal.

We have since moved on, back into suburbia. The large garden is no more. But there are still birds to photograph and a vast coastline along which to photograph them. The conversation will continue!

I can't wait until... photographing the seasons

Summer sunset at Mussenden Temple

Photographers are notorious for this on social media. When we are in the warmth (or otherwise) of summer, some photographer is bound to start the trend with a post beginning, “I can’t wait until Autumn!” Autumn is no sooner here than I start looking for the inevitable, “Is anyone looking forward to winter?”, followed by some magnificent snow scene. And of course, we are not long into January before a lovely picture of a bluebell wood appears on our Instagram feed. “I can’t wait until Spring.”

The forest floor in Autumn

It has to be admitted that there aren’t many posts from landscape photographers saying, “I can’t wait until Summer”! Something to do with sunrise being too early, light being too harsh, too many tourists - you know the drill.

Winter in my home county of Armagh

But photographers aren’t the only ones who ‘can’t wait’. “I can’t wait until the exams are over.” (I get that one!). I can’t wait until the mortgage is paid off. (I understand the longing.). I can’t wait until the kids are older and we have more time for us. (Hmmm.).

Here’s the thing. I can wait!

Spring comes to Portglenone Forest

Perhaps it’s my age. But every time I read a photographer saying, “I can’t wait for Autumn”, I want to shout, “I CAN wait!”

Of course I get it that, at least for some, this is not an expression of impatience but of anticipation. I also understand the importance of having something to look forward to, the importance of hope. And I love those gorgeous autumn colours. But let’s not rush lest in rushing we miss what is before us.

Landscape photographers have the wonderful gift of shooting and savouring the seasons. We notice, compose and frame the changes. We are immersed in the ancient rhythms of creation, liberated even for a few hours from the safe and sanitised world between four walls where we spend so much of our lives.

From my (almost daily) walk this week on Portstewart Strand, mid Spring with all its changes of light, weather, sea temperature , wave strength and beach contours. What’s not to love?

Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter. Let’s embrace them, while we still have the opportunity. To everything there is a season. Whether it is the garden, if we have one. Or the green, or the local park, a nearby wood, a favourite beach. Take time to breathe, to notice the changing light, shifting colour palette and slow transitions as all falls into step with the seasons.

Every moment is precious. Don’t wish your life away, even in jest or as click bait on social media. Enjoy the anticipation, but learn to make the most of the waiting.