The Cold Winter Air

I inhale deeply. The cold winter air fills my lungs. With each breath I spare a thought for the trees that provide me with life here on earth. I’m surrounded by a variety of tree species, and amongst the trees, I feel like one of them. There are Scot’s pine marching up the hill behind me; some appear to have been standing for over a century, overlooking the mid Wales savannah that surrounds me and this hill.

The pine trees aren’t alone. I pass by a splendid, mature beech tree that is keeping them company, and there are plenty of hawthorn, rowan and countless old oak trees; an abundance of which have set their roots down in the surrounding valleys, a few hundred metres below the ground on which I stand. Their roots may well be down below, but their crown and branches reach heights that I never will. I feel humbled as I contemplate the feats of Mother Nature, and how any of my achievements will never compare to hers.

Dawn is breaking and, despite my unrelenting desire to stay in bed this morning with a flu, I am here, and I get to enjoy the good tidings that she brings for those who silence the negative voice that lives inside of their heads; the one that seeks nothing but the comfort and security of a blanket on cold, winter mornings. Out here, I couldn’t be further from what that part of myself desires. Even the trees are frozen; white over with a stubborn hoar frost that is clinging firmly to their branches, and yet, they still wake to the warm embrace of the sun’s golden light and go about their duty.

The thought of this reminds me of my own duty; to create photographs and stories, and explore what it means to be a human being; to give life to others in the only way that I know; by sharing my emotions and, hopefully, allowing people to feel something when I do. In the same way that I have been given this gift through music, films and stories throughout my short life so far, I feel a great need to give back to a world that has given me so much already. I’m being pulled by a force far beyond myself to share my love for this planet and bear the fruits from the garden that I have been growing inside of myself.

I am reminded of our nature by the trees who give without asking, grow continuously, take only what they need, shelter us humans from storms, share their wisdom with the young, and listen without judgment or opinion.

I’ve made friends with so many of them recently and up here, I shake hands with some new companions and quietly introduce myself. Beneath us, a sea of fog has advanced overnight. As the sun rises to the east, the tide begins its’ steady retreat, revealing a frozen army of trees, icy blue like the sea herself, fossilised on her bed.

My eyes are drawn immediately to a distant hilltop. A copse of trees stand alone above the fog, glistening in the soft, morning light that kisses the tops of their branches, gently waking them from their sleep. My thoughts fall silent. I breath in the crisp, winter air and take a moment to appreciate the spectacle that I’m witnessing. The fog performs its’ dance in the valleys down below, revealing new characters with each routine. It is moments like this that strengthen me enough to fight off the voice inside, keeping me enthused to go outdoors in pursuit of creativity with my camera.

On these mornings, all of my senses are aroused. My nostrils are filled with rich, earthy aromas, my eyes drawn to light and colour, and sometimes, I remove my shoes to connect fully with the earth, and feel mud between my toes.

I find myself ‘here’, experiencing life fully, not focused on the things that I haven’t done, or worried about where I ‘should’ be in life. I look around me, marvelling at the beauty of the planet that I find myself on, and I feel like a part of something much bigger.

As hard as I try to stay present, my mind can’t help but wander off as I stare into the distance at the copse of trees. I’m transported to past adventures; of being perched up against an old oak tree in the safe embrace of a silent woodland, coffee in one hand, camera in the other. I think back to some special mornings that I spent in the grounds of Gregynog Hall back in 2021, and of many hours spent weaving myself between ancient, decrepit silver birch trees in forgotten corners of Snowdonia National Park.

I can hear the feint tapping of a woodpecker echoing somewhere in the valley. My heart yearns to run towards the sounds but, like all good things, my morning must soon come to an end. I set up the camera, and freeze this moment forever. It’s a photograph that will last; one with a story that I can tell of my home for a lifetime.

This part of Wales rarely gets the credit it deserves for its’ natural beauty, often being overshadowed by grander areas such as Snowdonia and Pembrokeshire. In pockets, mid Wales has areas that are equally as beautiful. Trees dominate the gentle landscape and my recent affection for the woodland has made me look upon my home with a new set of eyes. The peaks aren’t quite as dominant across the skyline here as they are further north and instead, the landscape weaves together like a blanket, rivers threading between the bumps as they retreat peacefully to the sea. These places will be missed, but I feel the need to follow the ways of the river and make haste towards the sea. I pack away my camera and pour a coffee from my flask. I didn’t know it at the time, but this would be the last photograph that I’d create of home.

I’ll be moving on towards a new home in January. I have been feeling myself being pulled away in search of some new adventures. As a child, I moved around from place to place, living in eight different homes by the time I was a teenager. The desire to travel is strong inside of me. I’ll be starting mine with a move back to my University town of Aberystwyth a month from now. New faces, new places, new projects and the chance to build a relationship with the raging sea. The trees have taught me so much over the past two years. I’m sure that the sea can teach me something new.

Insignificance

I was all alone. Just my camera and the cries of the raging sea beneath me for company. The only signs of colour in the landscape was a few escaping yellow buds of gorse, high up on the coastal path. The north-easterly wind had been howling all afternoon, and the tides were hitting the Devonshire coastline like a herd of charging bulls. At times, raindrops appeared to be falling upwards. It was grey, wet and completely miserable, as was I. Despite sitting that morning and compiling a list of all of the things to be grateful for, it appeared that I’d missed ‘wind’ off my list. Throughout my day so far, I had been sure to let it know about my feelings.

My morning had been spent trudging through miles of boggy ground in the middle of a bleak and miserable Dartmoor National Park. Many of the parks’ wild, naked hawthorn trees had provided shelter for me as I tried to escape the wrath of the 40+mph gales for a few minutes of silence and contemplation. I’d already seen my camera and tripod fall to the ground, narrowly missing some rocks. My feet were wet through and, after battling the wind for a few miles out here on the coastline, I had well and truly had enough. The lodge was calling my name. I wanted nothing more than to remove my socks and plant my cold feet firmly on the heated wooden floor.

My final stop of the day was a remote cove on the south coast of Devon, just outside of Plymouth. I had hiked for a few miles to get here and, despite my desire to walk on by and go straight back to the car, I descended the path and stepped foot out onto the narrow beach.

The rain was still pouring and the wind was showing no signs of letting up. Down here in the cove, it was relentless; a vicious onslaught of icy cold gusts and tidal spray combined with rain dampened any remaining enthusiasm that I had to create. Along the beach, my eyes were drawn to the mess and debris that had been washed up on the shore; wooden pallets, crisp packets, and broken plastic casing, despite the outstanding natural beauty that was all around me. Looking out into the sea, at the seemingly endless abyss brought some uncomfortable questions to mind. I stood and pondered my surroundings for a while, before trying, and failing, to find a meaningful subject to photograph.

Back in the comfort of the lodge, I sat for a while and reflected upon my first day in Devon. To say that I was disappointed with myself would be an understatement. I thought long and hard about the fortunate position that I was in to be able to create photographs, with an audience in different corners of the planet; people who are interested in the stories that I have to tell. Only a few days ago, I had been writing about ‘losing my sense of wonder’ when outside in nature, and about missing the feelings of childlike curiosity that I had at the beginning of my photography journey. Yet, here I was, with a new genre and plenty of opportunity to play and experiment without expectation, and I could barely muster the willpower to even pull my camera from my rucksack and look for a photograph.

I have been a student of Stoic philosophy on and off for a few years now and yet, I had allowed myself to forget one of the most important and repetitive teachings that has been so important to me:

“You have power over your mind – not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.” 

~ Marcus Aurelius

“It’s not what happens to you, but how you react to it that matters.” 

~ Epictetus

That night, I sat and reminded myself that if I want to progress in my pursuit to add any kind of artistic merit to my photography, then I am going to have to show some level of discipline with my approach. If I took photographs only when I felt like it, then much of the year would go to waste. Every day brings a new chance for us to experiment and explore; both the landscape and ourselves, for new stories to tell, and isn’t that why we all pick a camera up in the first place?

In this case, I wanted a story to tell about introspection, perseverance and of dedication to my chosen craft. A few years ago, I told myself and my journal that I would create photographs as though my life depended on it. I made the decision that night to return to the cove the following afternoon to create something, anything, regardless of what the day might bring.

After a morning walk along the river, I packed up my bag with supplies and followed the calls of the sea back down to the south Devonshire coastline. My mind was much clearer this time round.

I have been a strong advocate of the power of a writing routine for a few years now and my journal has been a place for me to reflect, release, find new direction in life, and make sense of many of my emotions. Sitting at the desk that previous night helped me in many ways, and I came back to the cove with a completely new perspective and refreshed attitude. Despite what were, once again, some treacherous conditions, my perseverance paid off and I managed to come away with the following photograph.

The tide swirling in at Soar Mill Cove.

Photography, for me, is so much more about the lessons and the wisdom that I accrue throughout my journey, than it is about the gathering of the photographs themselves. Some photographs, like the above, serve to remind me of what I learn through the creative process. What they lack in aesthetic appeal; magical light, vibrant colours, mood, drama, or anything else that might, for example, make an image popular across social media platforms or in a competition, they more than make up for in the story behind them.

With my chosen form of art, what I am able to become through the journey harbours much more interest to me, than any form of extrinsic rewards such as likes, comments or sales. I create to express. I create to share my emotions. I create to make sense of and communicate what it means to me to be a human being. I create to feel understood. Anything else that comes from that is a bonus.

Out here on the Cornish coastline, during the final day of my visit, everything was put into perspective. As I stood up on the footpath to The Rumps, looking out over cliff faces that were as tall as skyscrapers, I was reminded of the insignificance of all of my annoyances, fears, hopes, desires and dreams. The wind was still howling. The waves were still crashing. The cliff faces continued to erode. Despite my concerns and complaints just a few days earlier, Mother Nature failed to relent. ‘All of this is impermanent’, I thought, and that moment was liberating.

With that thought in mind, I made my way to my final port. Here, on the north coast of Cornwall, I explored with feelings of freedom, excitement and curiosity. It was on this wonderful beach, one that had been formed over millennia that I learnt to ‘play’ with my camera again. I clambered over the huge rocks that had fallen out of the skies, I ran from the incoming tide, slipped on algae, studied the swirling patterns engraved in the rocks, and created freely, without any expectation in mind. It was here, at Trebarwith Strand, that my heart filled up, and I found a missing part of myself again.

“The great geniuses are those who have kept their childlike spirit and have added to it breadth of vision and experience.”

– Alfred Stieglitz

Diary of a Landscape Photographer | Entry 7

Perhaps I’m too young in my photography journey to put myself into a box and call myself a ‘landscape photographer’. Truth is, I love all kinds of photography but I feel a constant obsession with my task at hand and I’m not sure where this comes from. At the moment, this task is to create the best landscape photographs possible and it has taken over my life. What if this attitude is actually a hindrance?

And by that I mean, what if I am putting too much pressure on myself to create ‘better’ photographs all the time? Rather than just enjoying the ones that I am able to create at the moment because they are 10x better than those that I was creating once upon a time.

Do you see my conundrum?

I often feel unfulfilled with the photographs that I make because I know that there is going to be another one just around the corner. It’s part of who I am and who I always have been. It’s even meant that I have refused to sell a piece of work because I knew that it wasn’t the finished piece. I think I might be programmed to never be completely happy with what I have.

There are so many ideas floating around in my head about the kind of photographs that I want to create, most of which take time, patience, a better understanding of light and a whole lot more maturity than that which I currently have. Three years behind a camera is not a long time in the grand scheme of things.

I know that there are so many other things that I could be doing in the mean time, while my vision develops and matures but I’m scared that these might detach me from where I think that I need to be.

I have so many questions and nobody that I know who can answer them.