OS Map of Bheinn Shuardail (Ben Suardal)

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18-Aug-24 • Walton Pantland • flickr

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18-Aug-24 • Walton Pantland • flickr

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18-Aug-24 • Walton Pantland • flickr

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Cill Chriosd Manse House remains.

Cill Chriosd Manse House remains on the Isle Of Skye.

15-May-24 • calypso182 • flickr

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Broadford

After staying up late to see the Northern Lights, waking up early to see the sunrise. Then completing the final part of the Skye Trail by heading down from the hills towards Suisnish, along the coast to another beach, then north to Broadford. Another hot sunny day.

11-May-24 • saira_b • flickr

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Broadford

After staying up late to see the Northern Lights, waking up early to see the sunrise. Then completing the final part of the Skye Trail by heading down from the hills towards Suisnish, along the coast to another beach, then north to Broadford. Another hot sunny day.

11-May-24 • saira_b • flickr

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Scotland-00482-Cill Chriosd Church-240503

No usage allowed without prior wriiten confirmation by Michael Badt

03-May-24 • Miki Badt • flickr

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Scotland-00484-Cill Chriosd Church-240503

No usage allowed without prior wriiten confirmation by Michael Badt

03-May-24 • Miki Badt • flickr

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Scotland-00485-Cill Chriosd Church-240503

No usage allowed without prior wriiten confirmation by Michael Badt

03-May-24 • Miki Badt • flickr

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Cill Chriosd and the Milky Way

We were staying in a small, lovingly restored croft at Elgol—a remote corner of Skye, and a place that seemed to exist on the very edge of the world. For any landscape photographer, it was nothing short of paradise. The light was ever-changing, shifting dramatically with the whims of the weather, casting the land and sea in an endless array of moods. Storms would gather strength far out in the North Atlantic, churning across the Outer Hebrides before making landfall here, their approach heralded by a grey mist swirling like a spectral veil. You could watch the rain fall in long, slanting curtains, trailing from the low-hanging clouds like threads unravelling from the sky. For those without a camera in hand, however, the charm of Elgol could be a little harder to grasp. To say the options were limited would be putting it kindly—severely limited would be closer to the truth. And bleak. A small village shop, sustained by the local community, provided the barest essentials, and a humble school sat quietly by the seashore. Beyond that, there was little else to speak of. After a day spent exploring Skye’s rugged landscapes, we would return to the warmth of our AirBnB, light the log fire, and settle in. That evening, the skies had begun to clear, and it promised to be a crisp, starry night. To reach Elgol, or "The End of the World" as we’d come to call it, we took a left at Broadford and followed a winding, single-track road that twisted through the scattered hamlets of Kilchrist, Kilbride, and Torrin, all while tracing the shoreline of Loch Slapin. The road dipped and curled until we descended into Kilmarie, a quiet place with one small claim to fame: it had been home to Ian Anderson of Jethro Tull, who had lived there in a large house from the late 1970s until around 2000 when he sold the estate. Not that I’ve ever been much of a Jethro Tull fan—flute solos while standing on one leg have never been my thing—but I digress. As we passed through Kilchrist, the ruins of a roofless chapel, Cill Chriosd, came into view, standing lonely against the sky. I had attempted to photograph it twice before, but both times had left me unsatisfied. Something was always off—the light too flat, the clouds overcast with no drama, or worse, fellow travellers stumbling into my frame, their snapshots robbing the moment of its magic. Still, I was determined to capture the scene, somehow, in a way that would do it justice. As we sat sipping tea in the cosy little bay window of the cottage, gazing out at the sky slowly clearing to the southwest, an idea quietly took shape in my mind. Why not photograph it at night? The thought seemed obvious in hindsight, as though it had been waiting to reveal itself all along. If I positioned myself in the graveyard, just north of the chapel ruins, I could capture the Milky Way arching across the sky, framed perfectly through the broken stone walls. Although it was late in the season and the Milky Way would slant at an angle above the chapel, the effect could be striking—assuming, of course, the sky remained clear long enough. I could already imagine the final image, stitched together in post-processing from enough exposures to reveal the depth and grandeur of the galaxy’s luminous heart. With this vision in mind, we finished our evening meal, and as darkness slowly wrapped its arms around Elgol, I began preparing for the night’s adventure. My camera gear had been laid out meticulously in one of the spare bedrooms earlier, waiting patiently. All that remained was to choose the right lens for the job. I packed my rucksack carefully, adding my star tracker, knowing it would allow me to take longer exposures of the Milky Way than I could normally manage without blurring the stars. It was October, and the air had a crisp bite to it, so I dressed in layers and prepared for the long hours ahead under the open sky. My headlamp and a small but powerful handheld torch were essential companions, both to navigate the ruins in the darkness and to light up the chapel for a few carefully blended exposures, capturing the foreground with the mood I envisioned. The image I had in my mind’s eye was vivid: the ancient chapel silhouetted against the grandeur of the cosmos, a blend of history and eternity. When I arrived, I knew the first challenge would be composing the shot in the inky blackness. However, once I established a solid composition, I would focus on capturing the foreground details, illuminating the chapel just enough to bring out its texture and presence without overwhelming the delicate starlight. Then, I would take multiple exposures of the Milky Way, stacking them later to reveal the intricate detail and sheer majesty of the night sky over Skye—its haunting beauty stretching far beyond the mortal remnants of the ruined chapel below. I made swift progress along the serpentine single-track road, weaving my way from Elgol toward Kilchrist. The journey, though solitary and remote, seemed to pass in a blur as the night stretched its dark cloak over the landscape and the powerful lights of the car illuminated roadside objects in the vast darkened landscape. Upon reaching the familiar layby opposite the chapel ruins, I eased the car to a stop and, anticipating my eventual departure in the pitch-black night, I turned the vehicle around so it would be facing the right direction. The air outside was still and cool as I retrieved my camera bag from the back seat and crossed the deserted road, the gravel crunching softly beneath my boots. The gate was as I remembered it—rusted and weather-beaten, hanging loosely on its hinges. I opened it with care, the creak echoing in the quiet, and made sure to close it gently behind me before heading up the low, grassy mound that cradled the chapel. The ruins stood in silent vigil, as they had for centuries, their weathered stones absorbing the darkness around them. I walked around the perimeter, the cold air brushing against my face as I descended the small mound on the other side. There, with the two gables of the chapel rising like ancient sentinels above me, I paused. Behind them, the Milky Way unfurled in all its celestial splendour, a shimmering river of stars flowing across the black, silent sky. As I stood, taking in the scene and planning my composition, I became acutely aware of the stillness enveloping me. The darkness seemed to thicken, pressing in on all sides, and with it came a profound and almost palpable silence. It wasn’t just the absence of sound—it was a silence so deep, so absolute, that it felt as though the world itself had been stilled. The ruins, the night, the stars, and I—all were held within its grasp. This overwhelming quietness, more than anything else, was what I noticed. It was all-encompassing, wrapping around me like the night itself, as if the land had drawn a long, patient breath and was waiting for something timeless and eternal to unfold. In today’s world, we are seldom acquainted with true silence. Everywhere we go, no matter the place, there is always a constant soundtrack accompanying our every step. It may be the low, insistent hum of machinery, the distant rumble of traffic, the faint roar of an aircraft carving through the sky, or the murmur of voices weaving through the air. This perpetual symphony of noise is so deeply ingrained in our existence that we scarcely notice it anymore. We have become accustomed to its presence, to the point where its absence, when encountered, feels startlingly profound. In modern life, we rarely sit in stillness and simply listen. We fill the quiet with distractions—televisions flicker in the background, radios play, or music streams endlessly from some device. It is as though silence has become something to be avoided, an uncomfortable void we seek to fill because, with the touch of a button, we now have the technology to provide an endless barrage of sound. But not so long ago, before the gramophone’s invention in the late 19th century, if one desired background music, there were no easy solutions. You had to make it yourself, with an instrument in hand, or else venture out to hear it performed by others. Music was something deliberate, not ambient—crafted with intention, and enjoyed in its rarity. And now, in this modern age of constant sound, the absence of that noise, any noise, now feels like a rare and almost forgotten luxury. In the dense, almost oppressive silence, I found myself entirely absorbed in my own little world. The composition of the chapel, silhouetted against the vast expanse of night, pleased me greatly, and I fired off a series of shots, each with varying exposures. With the same care, I quickly swept the building with torchlight—an imperfect technique at best, relying on instinct and chance. These days, I often opt for a remotely triggered flashgun, which delivers a more uniform light and enhances the colour accuracy of the structure. But at that moment, I made do with the torch. Once I finished the foreground images, I glanced at the camera’s screen, satisfied with what I had captured so far. Next, I retrieved the star tracker from my bag, fixed it to the tripod and carefully mounted the camera on top. I powered on the tracker, allowing it to follow the stars with precision. At this stage, I also swapped my lens for the 12mm f/2.8 prime, a wide-angle lens perfect for capturing the immense dome of the sky. Once again content with the framing, this time the Milky Way stretching majestically above the chapel, I began exposing myself, each lasting a full minute. It was then that I heard it. The impenetrable silence around me shattered, pierced by a low, primal sound. It was not a howl, not like a dog’s, but something deeper, more guttural—a fierce blend of a growl and an aggressive grunt. The noise lingered, reverberating for what felt like an eternity, though it could not have been more than 15 seconds. It echoed throughout Strath Suardal, bouncing off the unseen slopes and into the night. My focus on the heavens was abruptly broken. Every nerve in my body tensed, my mind screaming in alarm, “What the **k was that?!” I fumbled for my torch, flicking it on in a panic, the beam cutting through the darkness as I desperately scanned the surrounding landscape. My gaze was drawn to the thick forest that cloaked the lower slopes of Beinn Dearg Bheag, the direction from which the unnerving sound had come. The noise had been distinctly animalistic, and primal, and it sent a chill straight through me. The hairs on the back of my neck bristled with unease, and a shiver ran down my spine as if the night itself had come alive with some ancient, untamed force…. And I was stood in a deserted graveyard - alone and in the dark. I’ve never been one for horror films—not in my younger days, not ever. It simply wasn’t my thing. So, as I stood there in the dark, I wasn’t plagued by thoughts of zombies shambling from the forest or disfigured axe-wielders emerging from the shadows with malevolent intent. Instead, I found myself grasping for some rational explanation of the sound I’d just heard. But then, it came again—closer this time. It’s just a cow, I tried to reassure myself, though even as I thought it, I knew it wasn’t true. I’ve lived among fields of cows for years, and none have ever made a sound quite like that. And then, in a moment of clarity, it struck me—wild boar! Of course, I mused, still sweeping the edge of the forest with my torchlight. Wild boars can be ruthless little bastards. My thoughts raced, and I couldn’t help but compare their ruthlessness to that of my local council’s car parking enforcement who were even worse. Yes, it had to be a wild boar. That explanation seemed to settle me, at least for a moment. But then the noise came once more, ripping through the stillness, louder and more menacing than before. It echoed down the valley, rattling my nerves all over again. The primal sound sent the same chill through me as it had the first time, and despite my efforts to reason with myself, I couldn’t shake the sense of unease. My mind kept circling back, trying to rationalize it all, desperate to quiet the anxiety so I could return to the task at hand—capturing the night sky. But the sound lingered in my thoughts, unsettling and unyielding and still in the dark, both literally and figuratively as to what it was. Still wrestling with my thoughts, I suddenly felt the cool splatter of rain on my face. It was, at last, the perfect excuse I had been searching for, the rational justification to abandon my nocturnal mission. “Called off due to rain” sounded far more acceptable to share with fellow photographers than admitting I had been scared shitless and fled. I had never packed up my gear so quickly in my life, all the while glancing nervously over my shoulder into the vast expanse of darkness behind me, half-expecting some unseen creature to be stalking out of the black void. My mind conjured absurd images of me grappling with a wild boar, desperately fending it off with nothing but my lightweight carbon-fibre tripod, a scene so ridiculous it almost made me laugh—almost. With my gear stowed away, I snatched up my rucksack and hurriedly made my way through the gravestones, the ancient stones standing as silent sentinels as I moved past them, my heart racing. Reaching the front of the little chapel, I crossed the empty road and pressed the key fob to unlock my car. The sudden blaze of light as the car's exterior and interior illuminated the layby was a welcome sight, banishing the oppressive darkness in an instant. I tossed my bag onto the back seat, slammed the door, and wasted no time in climbing into the driver’s seat, locking the doors behind me with a click that felt like a barrier against the unknown. With a sense of relief, I pressed the start button, and the engine roared to life, shattering the silence once more. Without hesitation, I pulled away from the chapel and into the night, and headed back to Elgol eager to leave both the darkness and my unsettling encounter far behind me, and hoping I had captured enough images to do something with when I got back home. After some time to reflect, and having since revisited—well, at least driven past—the same ruined chapel, I’ve concluded that what unsettled me so deeply that night was likely nothing more than a red deer stag. October is, after all, the rutting season on Skye, and had I known that at the time, perhaps I would have lingered longer, even braving the rain until the light drizzle turned to a downpour. Is there a moral to this tale? I’m not entirely sure, but one thing is certain: I’ll think twice before spending another night alone in a deserted graveyard, shrouded in darkness, waiting for the unknown to creep out of the shadows. Some experiences, it seems, are best left to the light of day and as William Shakespeare so eloquently wrote in Hamlet, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” A reminder, perhaps, that the world is filled with mysteries beyond the reach of our understanding, and that the unknown, much like the night sky itself, holds more than we often care to acknowledge. ***Please note that this image is protected by Pixsy. Any unauthorised use of it will be pursued by Pixsy and their legal team*** twitter.com/UKMuddyBoots" rel="noreferrer nofollow Twitter - Michael Dutson Landscape Photos www.youtube.com/channel/UCSCD9HMLKY60jHb7wQGQUpw" rel="noreferrer nofollow YouTube Channel - Michael Dutson Landscape Photography www.instagram.com/michael_dutson_landscape_photo/?hl=en" rel="noreferrer nofollow Instagram - Michael Dutson Landscape Photo www.tiktok.com/@michaeldutsonphoto/" rel="noreferrer nofollow TikTok - Michael Dutson Photo

05-Oct-21 • Michael Dutson Landscape Photography • flickr

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