Shooting Heather In The Mournes

For those of you who know that my wife’s name is Heather, please don’t be alarmed. No guns were involved! Nor was my wife. Heather, also known as calluna vulgaris, is of course the extremely hardy low-growing flowering shrub which dominates the moorlands and colours them mauve in the month of August.

We have a large swathe of it almost literally outside our back door, covering what’s known locally as “the moss”, a stretch of boggy turf where nothing else grows. However, the surroundings are not particularly photogenic and for some years it has been an ambition to photograph the heather in the much more dramatic setting of the Mournes.

Timing is always a challenge, just as it is with autumn colour. There is a period of a few weeks each year when the flowers are at their best but precisely when is hard to predict, On previous occasions we had been too late, as you can see from the above photo taken on August 18 above Ben Crom reservoir: some colour remains but it has largely faded. This year, with all kinds of schedule challenges, we only managed six days earlier. It proved to be enough.

On this occasion we made for a different location, on the opposite side of Binian, the large mountain in the photo above. Our goal was Slievenaglogh.

Thankfully, this was a much shorter and slightly easier hike, which involved heading towards Hare’s Gap before crossing the stream and slowly (in my case) ascending the side of the mountain.

Hare’s Gap, photographed from close to the start of our hike, using the long lens (at 100mm) which revealed promising colour on the higher slopes of Slievenaglogh.

On the lower slopes the heather was rather patchy and faded but the distant view of the higher slopes through my telephoto lens looked much more promising so we kept heading upwards.

Crossing the stream, with Slieve Binnian, our third highest mountain, now in our sights.

It was a glorious afternoon and I was glad of the frequent stops on the way up the mountain as I was labouring in the heat and under the weight of my backpack. I had chosen to bring my heaviest lens - the Sigma 100-400 - in the hope of photographing smaller details within the landscape. In the end, however, while I managed a photo of a sheep, I could easily have done without the extra weight. A mistake I won’t make next time!

This curious chap kept his eyes on me as he kept his distance. The 100-400 gave me the opportunity to photograph him surrounded by heather.

At least I knew that my water supply would be used up by the time we were heading back, which meant the load would be lighter. The same went for the food I had packed. I had packed it, hadn’t I?

The awful truth dawned. My sandwiches were still in the cool bag back in the car! Not good. I don’t do hunger well: low blood sugars, increased grumpiness, as well as dark mutterings to self about my growing senility. Steven saved the day by insisting I shared his sandwich! (Marvellous man!)

The view unfolded as we gained height, becoming more and more spectacular while all the time the heather thickened and the colour grew more intense. Finally we found what we knew would be our main composition.

Our plan was to have Binnian as dominant as possible in the frame, using the walking paths to lead diagonally through the frame up to the Mourne wall, and filling the foreground with heather. The semi-circle of rocks provided a great structure to hold the composition together.

The sun was pouring into the valley from our right, just as we had hoped. Our only concern was that the clouds would disappear, as the forecast had warned and that we would be left with a beautiful but empty sky. So I hurriedly took a few shots while there was still some detail left.

As promised, the sky duly cleared a few moments later. All we could do was to wait and see. It was a reminder again of how in landscape photography, as in so much of life, we are dependent on factors beyond our control. Arriving early, waiting, staying late and, if necessary, returning again and again, year after year, that’s the name of the game.

On this occasion, however, waiting was eventually rewarded as,much to our delight, some dramatic clouds began to sweep in over Binnian just as the sun was beginning to set. The display didn’t last long but with some frantic scrabbling around I managed two different compositions.

Sony A7RIV, with Zeiss 18mm at f11, with Lee polarising and Firecrest graduated filters. Because of the breeze I used a shutter speed of 1/45, increasing the ISO to 200, as I didn’t want the heather to blur. This compromise was made sweeter by the fact that the breeze kept the midges away!

By the time I set up for a panorama, the clouds had largely moved away.

Panorama of 7 shots at 18mm, processed in Lightroom.

With the sun now set we packed up and headed back down the mountain. There was still a wonderful glow in the sky and looking back towards Binnian I noticed a new cloud formation was picking up the last of the sunset light. There was only time for a handheld shot before the colour faded.

Zeiss 18mm at f8, ISO 500, 1/90 second

It was time to head for the car, reflecting thankfully once again on why I love landscape photography so much and how I never want to take it for granted, especially now in my 69th year. The challenge of it, not just physically but technically and aesthetically. The opportunity to breathe the air of the mountains, to feel the rocks and smell the heather. The opportunity to create a memory, perhaps even a piece of photographic art to share, bringing the captured light to others.

There is so much chaos and ugliness in our world. But it is not the only story. There is beauty too.

it started with the trees

Guardian of the Forest. Deep in Tollymore Forest this mighty oak reaches across the Shimna river

“Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.”

— Joyce Kilmer

I grew up surrounded by trees.

Majestic limes, whose leaves I used to lick as a boy for their sweetness; stately Scots pines, where once I saw a red squirrel; a Monkey Puzzle tree, all spikey branches; a glorious chestnut whose harvest fed the conker wars at the start of each new school year; and the prince of all our trees, a magnificent copper beach.

Tree trunks served as goal posts for football, stumps for cricket, a place to hide when I ran from my brothers, a friend to lean against to read a book. The limes, chestnut and beech marked the swiftly moving year with its changing seasons; the pines remained the same, just bending and creaking in the high winds of winter.

Bow and Curtsey. Like dance partners these elegant Beech trees line opposite one another across the banks of the Six Mile Water.

In school I learned that trees are the lungs of the earth, breathing in carbon dioxide and other pollutants and breathing out oxygen. That trees give us glue, paper, medicine and wood for our fires. They provide food and shelter. They cool our streets, protect our homes and mask unsightly ugliness that is so often the imprint of humans upon the landscape. They help prevent soil erosion and shelter our increasingly precarious wildlife. (All of which makes it even more appalling that we in Northern Ireland live in the second most unforested area of Europe, with only Malta having fewer trees than we do.)

All of that is true and important. But trees are more than that. It wasn’t their utility that inspired me as a child. It was the trees in themselves: majestic, mysterious, inspiring, beautiful.

The Fairy Wood’s Secret. The moss covered limbs of an ancient oak in the heart of the Breen Wood in Co Antrim, one of the last patches of the oak woods that used to cover Ireland.

Solitary Grace. I spotted this tree while some friends were driving me through Bavaria. They watched amused as I ran through the snow in totally inadequate clothing to make this handheld photo before beating a shivering retreat to the warmth of the car. My love of snow covered trees knows no limits!

I was never much of an artist as a child, but I loved drawing trees. Trees in winter, without leaves, the intricate architecture of their trunks, branches and twigs stark against a white sky. And while I could never successfully draw it, the greatest delight was on those rare occasions when we experienced a decent snowfall and the trees in our garden were transformed into a mystical wonderland.

What was this delight? And what explained this strange almost melancholic joy that came like a scent drifting on the air or like the sound of distant music. The harder I tried to grasp it the quicker it disappeared, only to reappear at odd and surprising moments: the flash of a bird during a cricket match, a wet leaf blown against the classroom window by a November storm, a low carpet of mist on the paddock that marked the changing seasons as I paused before the rush to be on time for school.

An old farmer-preacher used to say in his colourful sermons, “There’s something in a man that there isn’t in a cow.” It made me laugh as a boy. But I couldn’t figure out what that something was. Perhaps I didn’t listen well enough. It was only in my late teens when one of my university professors drew my attention to a phrase in the ancient Genesis creation account about trees: “The Lord God made all kinds of trees grow out of the ground - trees that were pleasing to the eye and good for food.”

L’abri (The Shelter). A magnificent beech high in the Glens of Antrim, sheltering one of the county’s many sheep from a rare, early snow storm.

Pleasing to the eye. Not just good for food (or shelter, or wildlife or pollution). And not even first good for food. Pleasing to the eye.

To whose eye? To God’s certainly. When he considered his creation each day he saw that it was good. But that couldn’t be all the phrase meant. The food part was clearly not for God. And suddenly there it was: to be human is to notice and appreciate beauty. In that simple statement about the trees lay the explanation for our need of beauty, art and creativity. We were designed this way. There is something in a man that there isn’t in a cow!

Old Friends. Two of the few remaining trees on the crown of Gallows Hill where we live, caught in a snow storm during ‘lockdown’ 2021. Old, bent and twisted by time and the elements, they appear to cling to and complement one another like a married couple through the ups and downs of life. We have this photo in our home!

My dog liked trees. As Lex Luthor points out in Superman, all cocker spaniels love trees! But Rusty (my dog) didn’t write poetry in praise of their beauty or rush to get his camera when the light was right. There’s something in a man that there isn’t in a dog!

I know very well that there are many who don’t agree with me, who are content to explain our aesthetic sense, as they must human love and everything else that we value most in life, as the accidental result of the blind, impersonal, purposeless and ultimately meaningless processes of evolution. That is their right. I’m simply sharing what makes sense to me.

And it started with the trees.

Sunset Canopy. The trees in Portglenone Forest glow in the late October sun.

The Old Man and The Sea

You would think I would have known better. Paid closer attention. Especially as I know only too well that every couple of minutes there comes a wave bigger than all the rest. I lost a camera to such a wave back in March. But no. I thought I was at a safe distance, not even on the shelf where I normally stand but behind it, higher up on a grassy bank. I turned my back - to change a filter with my bag open on the ground before me. I was alerted by the angry snarl of the sea behind me but it was too late…

This was the scene inside the harbour. Fortunately all boats had been removed to winter storage!

I had gone to Ballintoy in the morning, excited by the prospect of big waves and armed with a super telephoto lens recently purchased precisely for such a day. And the day didn’t disappoint. Huge waves battered the rocks around the tiny harbour delighting the many who had come to witness the spectacle. My objective was to photograph waves. To zoom in close, freeze the motion and capture the power of the sea.

One of the spectacular waves that greeted me on my arrival at my location near Ballintoy Harbour.

By lunchtime I had already a number of shots I was pleased with, so I took a break and went to a local cafe where they were serving Covid-secure coffee. Two coastguards were in the queue ahead of me, reminding me of my brief conversation with them earlier at the harbour. “I hope you’re not too busy,” I said. “Busy enough,” was the reply, and it’s to get worse later as the tide comes in.”

Music to my ears, hoping, of course, that everyone would stay safe. So I returned to my spot hoping for that one big wave. And sure enough it came, an enormous sea monster that through the telephoto lens seemed to be about to consume Fairhead.

My favourite shot of the day. At 268mm on my Sigma 100-400, f8, 1/1000, ISO640

With so many dramatic photos already captured and with the light beginning to fade I was considering packing up to go home. How I now wish I had! But at that moment a rainbow appeared right over the section of sea I was shooting. It was too good an opportunity to miss. But a change of lens was required.

The benefit of the Sigma 100-400 was particularly apparent in images like this. 400mm, f11, 1/1000, ISO640

The sudden burst of sunlight and the appearance of a rainbow meant I needed a wider lens!

Changing a lens and then adding a filter required me to set my backpack down, open it to hunt for a filter and my day’s photography was over.

I stood helplessly as the sea water swirled around me, knocked the camera onto the ground, picked up my bag and swept it down into a rock pool, where it floated like a sinking boat rapidly taking in water. “No, no, oh no!” was all I could manage as I finally reacted and fished my semi-submerged bag out of its briny coffin.

A shocked photographer who had witnessed the entire scene kindly supplied some cloths so that I could at least attempt to dry my gear. One lens seemed to have remained above the tide. But the rest told a different tale. I looked into the lens that I had on my camera. Sea water was sloshing around behind the front element. When I switched the camera on only the shutter actuated, firing constantly at high speed. Later I would discover that the Sigma was also dead.

One rogue wave - a wave I should have expected but hadn’t seen because my back was turned - probably the biggest wave of the entire day had exploded on the rocks behind me, sending a river of water up the bank at considerable speed.

It took a while to sink in. Not simply that sea water and electronics don’t mix. But that had I been any closer I would have discovered that sea water and 67 year old grandfathers don’t mix too well either. (My wife helped me to see the point!)

An old man - well heading that way anyway - and the sea. And a lesson hopefully learned.

Review of the Year 2019

At the end of each year I take time to go back over the photos I’ve taken to see which are my favourites. It’s a bit of fun, especially as it gives me an opportunity to remember the experiences that accompanied each photo. It is also quite helpful as a means of getting under the surface of my photography to see what (if anything!) I’ve learned and to detect any new directions I might like to pursue in the following year.

Selecting ‘favourite’ photos is similar to but not quite the same as selecting ‘best’ photos. To choose my best, I would need to be more rigorously objective and perhaps even involve others to make the final assessment. My favourites might not be my best, depending on what criteria are being used. But they are the ones which speak most loudly to my heart and which best encapsulate the experience of being there and releasing the shutter.

A light in the darkness. Ballintoy Parish Church, 30/1/19

This first photo was taken hand-held with a borrowed lens in a snowstorm! A gap in the clouds out of frame to the left allowed the sun to light up the church while the snow was still driving down upon us from dark and heavy clouds above. A special moment.

This photo has come to have immense symbolic value for me, which I will no doubt write about at another time. Suffice it to say that the light is not coming from the church, but to the church from beyond it - indeed from beyond the planet. Without that light the church would also be dark - a challenge at the end of this year as I think of what it means to be light in the darkness. But even without the significant overtones of light and darkness, storm, church the photo would I think rank amongst my best.

Joshua Tree National Park, California, 5/3/19

The second photo is from my visit to Joshua Tree National Park in March. I have written elsewhere of how this was a fulfilment of a dream. It was almost thwarted by bad weather - yes, it rains in the desert! But we finally succeeded. It was worth bringing my 18mm lens all the way from Ireland just for this shot.

Portglenone Forest, 1/5/19

The third photo vies with the first as my favourite of the year. It is also the photo that now hangs in prime location over the sofa in our lounge. This first day of May promised mist, which is why my photographer friend Steven and I headed out to this location. The mist did not appear, but the sun did, creating beautiful streaks of light across the forest’s carpet of bluebells. This panoramic image is made up of five separate shots stitched together in post processing. I had it printed 48” wide and then mounted in a white box frame as a Christmas present for my wife. (She loves it!)

Dunluce Castle, 1/5/19

Remarkably this photo was taken on the same day as the previous one, but at sunset rather than at sunrise. Dunluce Castle is always magnificent and I have other images of it with much more vivid sunset colours. But I like the contrast between this and the others, especially in colour palette and also in the small details of the foreground flowers, for example, the stones on the beach and the white trails on the sea. Above all I like the mood produced by the menacing clouds, which is perhaps more representative of this green isle.

Whiterocks Beach and Dunluce Castle

Dunluce Castle creeps in again, this time as seen across the sea from Whiterocks Beach. I took dozens of similar photos until I managed this one where the setting sun lights up the castle and the foreground waves create a pattern to lead into the photo.

The Wishing Arch, Causeway Coast, 21/6/19

An amazing summer sunrise, as the sun pierced through the rain creating a spectacular orange glow which contrasted beautifully with the white and green of the limestone cliffs and the sea. This photo is special to me as it reminds me of the exhibition in October which raised so much money for Hope365’s work with street children in Ethiopia.

Portmoon Bothy, 25/7/19

Another summer sunrise! On this occasion, as is often the case, the glorious light lasted only for a few seconds but the early start and lengthy walk along the coastal path from Dunseverick Castle were amply rewarded with another favourite photo of the year. The star of the photo is also the smallest part of it - the little red-roofed bothy.

Malin Head, Donegal, 12/9/19

I’ve made a number of attempts over the years to photograph what must be one of the most spectacular views in Ireland, Malin Head with this year’s attempt being by far the most pleasing. But who knows, I might try it again next year! It is quite a hike to get there from the visitor’s car park as it is well off the beaten track, but the breathtaking views west and south make all the effort supremely worthwhile.

Lily pads, Breen Wood, 10/10/19

I made a new discovery this year: the Breen Oak Wood, which is near Armoy in Co Antrim. This photo of lily pads in the small pond at the edge of the wood represents a very different type of photography for me involving intentional camera movement (ICM). Often the results are simply terrible! But occasionally, as in this photo, the shapes, colours and movement come together to create something worthwhile. Perhaps this is a pointer to some more experimentation next year.

The Breen Oak Wood, 12/10/19

As woods tend to be, the Breen Oak Wood is a challenging place to photograph with its dense undergrowth and general chaos. This ancient moss covered oak caught my attention as a sliver of sunlight pierced the canopy of leaves and branches above.

Tollymore Forest Park, 30/10/19

Deep in the heart of Tollymore Forest Park this magnificent gnarled oak tree dominates the river like a mythical monster. The Kraken comes to mind! From this angle it appears to reach out to pull me into the photograph.

The Collin, Co Antrim 17/12/19

I end this review of 2019 as I began it, with light and darkness. It is from my last shoot of the year and the first after surgery. This copse is normally unremarkable, but the addition of mist with the rising sun makes all the difference. It reminds me of Dickens famous beginning to his novel ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ which I read many years ago in English class at school: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times… it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness…” On this occasion the light prevailed and the sun shone through.

I hope you have enjoyed this selection. And a very happy New Year to you!

Beginnings

My first year in landscape photography

Rainbow over Slemish

I can trace my adventures in landscape photography back to May 26th 2010, and to this specific photograph, for this was the first time I can remember packing my gear in the car and deliberately setting off with no other agenda - not even to buy milk at the local garage - than to try to create a landscape photograph.

It was an early Spring evening of dramatic showers. I headed for the most photogenic spot I knew within reasonable distance (we were not living near to the North Coast in those days), Slemish mountain. I well remember negotiating some unfamiliar narrow and twisting roads in driving rain, desperately searching for a composition that included Slemish, when the sudden appearance of a vivid rainbow made my quest even more urgent. Eventually I noticed a view of Slemish that involved going into a farmer’s yard, Thankfully the farmer was perfectly happy for me to take advantage of the viewpoint. and I came away soaked but with this photograph and very content!

I learned a lot from that one experience. That I should be better prepared the next time! That having a microfibre cloth is much more efficient than using the tail of my shirt to wipe the front of the lens. That light matters. That I needed to get to know my camera better. Most of all I learned about myself: that I loved being outdoors, with the camera.

The Garden of the Gods, Colorado

The Slemish experience was, of course, not the first time I had attempted some landscape photography. Over the years, with various cameras, I had made some half hearted attempts. Then, some months previously, I found myself in Colorado Springs with my eldest daughter and her husband. Despite the outside temperatures and having a heavy cold, Kristyn took me to visit the Garden of the Gods, where I made a few attempts to capture what I saw. So my interest had already been growing quietly in the background. Slemish made clear to me that this is what I really wanted to do.

Portstewart at sunset. The first landscape photograph that made it to the giddy heights of a canvas print!

This coincided with more frequent trips to the Causeway Coast, since my daughter now had a house there. And that renewed my love for the ragged edges of this island.

Ballintoy Parish Church, photographed with a long lens (at 240mm) so that the Rathlin Island lighthouse and bird observation station appear very close.

Possibly my first attempt to photograph the Giant’s Causeway, our only World Heritage Site. I deleted most of my photographs from my first year doing landscapes, but I kept this one as a memory of a glorious evening walk with one of my sons, Michael.

I’ve always loved snow. It doesn’t snow often in Northern Ireland, and when it does it tends not to last. But I was thrilled to have a snow day in December 2010 and used it to explore the Six Mile Water, not far from where we lived at the time.

I was beginning to appreciate the quality and colour of light at the end of the day, as the river and the tree covered bank turned gold in the low winter’s sun.

Snow, mist and the setting sun combined to transform this normally fussy and unremarkable scene a short walk from our front door.

These are among the few photographs from 2010 that have survived my regular process of ‘culling’. I can remember the circumstances of each one, and the feelings I had at the time as I pressed the shutter release. And that’s one of the many attractions of landscape photography. It makes you stop. observe, wonder, feel the moment. And taking the shot etches the moment into the memories that contribute to building life and a deepening appreciation of beauty.