Day 6 - Frozen Lochs and Unexpected Emus: A Winter Day in the West Highlands
A proper winter day in the Highlands begins long before the first photograph is taken. It starts with the cold.
I began at Bridge of Orchy, the temperature sitting at –4°C and still edging downward. The kind of cold that sharpens everything — sound, colour, thought. Frost clung to the verge and the river moved dark and steady beneath the bridge. There was no wind, just that deep Highland stillness that makes even simple scenes feel significant.
From there I drove west toward Kilchurn Castle.
The approach required crossing a field that had frozen solid overnight. Every step crunched with that hollow, glassy sound only hard frost makes. Ice spikes went on before I left the gate — less for drama, more for practicality. The ground offered no forgiveness.
When the castle finally came into view, the effort made sense. Loch Awe was completely frozen. Not partially edged with ice, not broken by wind — fully sealed. A rare sight. The ruined walls stood against a sheet of pale winter blue, reflected not in water but in ice. It transformed the scene entirely. The cold had simplified everything: fewer textures, fewer distractions, just structure and tone. It felt less like a photograph waiting to happen and more like a document of a moment that doesn’t come often.
By mid-afternoon I was heading north toward Castle Stalker. The light was already beginning to soften, that low winter sun refusing to climb very far above the horizon. Castle Stalker sat isolated as ever, surrounded by tidal water and winter silence. Even in familiar locations, winter shifts the mood. Colours mute. Shadows lengthen earlier. You work faster because you have to.
The final stop of the day was the small port village of Port Appin. I walked out toward the lighthouse on its small island as the light drained from the sky. The air felt even colder near the water. The last frames were made in that brief window where detail begins to fade but shape remains — silhouettes forming, contrast deepening, the day closing in quietly.
And then there was the strangest sight of all.
Emus.
In the Highlands.
Not a single deer all day — which in itself feels statistically unlikely — but emu birds pacing behind a fence line as if this were rural Australia rather than Argyll. Scotland has a habit of offering the unexpected when you least anticipate it.
That’s what stays with me about days like this. Not just the frozen loch or the fading light, but the unpredictability. The Highlands don’t perform on command. They reveal themselves in their own time — sometimes in ice, sometimes in silence, and occasionally in the shape of a flightless bird where you’d least expect it.