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We like our lore in Scotland, traditionally at least, and this be peak faerie season. Lock up your babies!

The Enchanted Forest event at Pitlochry plays on this, and of course tourists it up, but you can’t deny the fun in creeping through an artfully lit forest staffed by druids and unicorns, on a calm, cold, moonlit night in the days surrounding Halloween (or Samhain, to give it its Celtic name). A good and proper way to celebrate the passing of this ancient festival (rant about commercialised, americanised ‘trick-or-treat’/harlot-y costume abomination soon to follow…)

The tree-based light installations surround a small loch, making for stunning reflections on a still night. Turn these images sideways, however, and the faces of the Faerie Folk come out! –

By all accounts, if walking out at night during this high season of supernatural activity, it is best practice to wear your clothes outside-in and back-to-front. Centuries-old established method of faery-mischief repellence…

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Since I’ll be leaving the country again soon, and indefinitely, I thought I’d best make the most of my remaining time at home and get out into the landscape, by far the best thing about my homeland. My home county of Angus is a tourism backwater, and its dismal towns either suffer for it, or are the cause of it, it’s hard to say which. But the agricultural pastures which roll between hills and woodland and right to the cliffs of the North Sea shore make it the most beautiful of the land, in my opinion, and are what shall one day bring me back.

Though I took a lot of classic shots of that landscape today, I’ve chosen slightly abstract ones which display textures:


Light through the beech leaves and on the bare dreels, post-harvest.

I like this one cause it doesn’t really fit. It’s ambiguous, homogeneous even. It could be anywhere, though it makes me think of Kansas, or Nebraska. Not that I’ve ever been to either, but I did fly over them in an aeroplane once…

Today, I’m feeling monochrome…

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This afternoon I was overcome by an urge to head for the coast. The sun had retreated, but the breeze was still warm and the clouds made a fine spectacle. There were others on the stony shore at Auchmithie, enjoying the close of the summer. Slavic voices fleeted up on the wind, too distant to tell where from, and I wondered how they had come to find this hidden cove.

 Some houses for sale: tiny, squint, one-story things, like rural homes ought to be; and I fantasise of a bleak, seaside existence…