Coastal Conversations
Part two of a two-part photography collaboration — three coastal images from Scotland exploring human presence in the landscape.
This post is part of Coastal Conversations, a collaboration with photographer Giles Thurston. In Part 1, he shared his three coastal images along with my questions for him — you can read that here.
This is Part 2, my contribution to the project. I’ve chosen three images from Scotland’s shoreline — a lighthouse, a bell, and wartime defences — and paired them with my reflections and Giles’s questions.
Eilean Glas Lighthouse is the prize at the end of a succession of islands. It sits on Eilean Glas (Glas Island) on the east coast of the island of Scalpay, which lies off the east coast of the Isle of Harris, in the Outer Hebrides, which lie to the west of Scotland, itself part of an island.
Despite several visits to Harris and Lewis, I’d never made it out to the lighthouse so it was very much on my list of locations during another visit with a group of friends, particularly as I was part of a project to produce a body of work for a book titled ‘Littoral’ for which I had decided on incorporating man-made objects.
Battered by an October headwind, the 2-3km walk to the lighthouse felt a tad longer, particularly as I was carrying a well-loaded camera bag and tripod. There were tantalising glimpses of the top of the lighthouse along the path but it wasn’t until we got much closer that we saw it in its entirety.
I thoroughly enjoyed exploring the site but the strong wind and squally showers made it difficult to use the camera at times. This image isn’t a classic ‘scenic’ view as I’ve chosen to include the telegraph poles and associated wires; elements that many would try very hard to avoid. I happen to like telegraph poles within the landscape and have photographed them many times. I also like lighthouses so this was a match made in heaven. For me, this view shows a palimpsest landscape; a document of layers of time.
One of the first four lighthouses built in Scotland, the tower seen today, with its two brand red bands to distinguish it as a daymark, is not the original. The first tower was built between 1787 and 1789 with the lighthouse becoming operational in October of that year. Alexander Reid was keeper there until 1823 when he was pensioned off after 35 years in the post by which time he was “weatherbeaten and stiff by long exposure on the point of Glas”. Having been battered by the wind during my visit, I have every sympathy for Alexander Reid - he must have been hardy. The present tower was erected under the supervision of Robert Stevenson in 1824 and remained manned until 1978 when the light was converted to automatic operation.
This image was taken during the same visit to the Hebrides as Eilean Glas Lighthouse, at Bosta Beach on Great Bernera, an island off the Isle of Lewis. There’s a theme emerging. For those that don’t know, despite having distinct names, the Isles of Harris and Lewis are actually one landmass. To continue another theme, this visit was also accompanied by a strong wind that whipped the sand along the beach scouring skin and filling orifices. I was drawn to the bell immediately; it was both out of place within the environment yet at the same time not. I thought it was some sort of buoy at first before realising it was a bell. I spent quite some time prostrate on the beach being whipped and scoured, with my tripod as low as it could go, partly to get a sea level angle and partly to prevent camera shake as I was using a telephoto lens.
A gift to the host community, and owned, in every sense, by them, the Time and Tide bells were created by sculptor and musician Marcus Vergette. The design of each bell is unique both for their harmonic structure and that they are rung by the tidal energy of the sea. Marcus conceived the bells in the context of sea level rise to contemplate our relationship to the sea, that gives and takes, as it wraps the coat of Britain twice a day.
The bell at Bosta Beach was the second such bell to be installed. The inscription on the wave-catcher reads:
Gun mhuthadh gun truas
A’ sluaisreadh gainneim h na tràgh’d
An àtaireachd bhuan
Cluinn fuaim na h-àtairreachd àrd.
Mo leabaidh dean suas
Ri fuaim na h-àtairreachd àrd.
Without change, without pity
Breaking on the sand of the beach
The ceaseless surge
Listen to the high surge of the sea.
Make my resting place be
By the sound of the surge of the sea.
This final image was taken at Roseisle Beach on the Moray coast. It was the first location I visited for the Littoral project; a day that I was filled with self-doubt as to my ability to deliver. It took me about half an hour to get out of the car with my camera, which I only did when it started raining. Maybe, subliminally, the weather was reflecting my mood. I wandered along the beach making half-baked efforts at images combined with bouts of mental self-flagellation. Two things changed my mood. First, I switched my live view into black and white, as the brief was for black and white images, and I began to ‘see’ images. Second, the pill boxes had faces. I constantly see faces in every day objects, a common phenomenon called pareidolia, and seeing the pill boxes looking shocked at my presence pulled me in. I was up and running. And there were lots to choose from.
A series of pillboxes and anti-tank blocks run round the bay from Burghead to Findhorn. A survey of the beach in August 1940 concluded that there were seven miles of beach suitable for landings. Anti-invasion measures were put in place that included anti-aircraft stakes, triple Dannert wire rolls placed just below the High Water Mark (HWM), and anti-tank cubes just above the HWM with pillboxes for machine guns and anti-tank guns at intervals along the beach. This beach was also used for the D-Day landings, and some of the 1940-1 structures may have been blown up for this purpose. The remains are now on the beach or intertidal zone, although in 1940 they appear to have been above the HWM.
I came home that day with several images I liked and a renewed confidence in myself that I would be able to deliver enough images for the Littoral project. And so it turned out.
Giles’s Questions
Q: What draws you to the coast and these kinds of subjects in particular?
A: I wouldn’t say that I am drawn specifically to photograph at the coast, although I enjoy it when I’m there. The sound of the sea can be hypnotic and calming, even if the sea is rough. I do, however, enjoy photographing man-made objects within the landscape, whether at the coast or inland. I realised a few years ago that I like those elements that many photographers do their best to avoid in images, like telegraph poles and wires. I also like the history and sense of a story untold with buildings, the fact that often there is layering within that story that isn’t immediately obvious. I worked as an archaeologist for a few years and one of my roles was building recording. I learned that the longer I spent with a building, the more it gave of itself as I ‘got my eye in’; all those little details that can be missed on the initial survey. Perhaps it’s the jarring juxtaposition within a beautiful backdrop or lack of ‘perfection’ that draws me.
Q: The book project: are all these contenders to be in there and can you tell me a little more about the project please?
A: The book was published in 2023 to raise funds for the RNLI; a collaboration between three photographers and a writer. The lighthouse image didn’t make the book but was used on a promotional postcard. The pill box and the bell both made the book. I have written about the Littoral project here.
This brings Coastal Conversations to a close. Working on this collaboration has been a reminder of how much more an image can reveal when another set of eyes is involved — questions spark new layers, and familiar places feel freshly seen.
I hope you’ve enjoyed these three photographs — lighthouse, bell, and pillboxes — alongside the dialogue they inspired. If you missed Part 1, with Giles’s images and my questions for him, you can find it here.
Do you have a favourite coastal place or memory of your own? I’d be delighted if you shared it in the comments.
Part of Coastal Conversations, this collaboration was created with photographer Giles Thurston. His work, based in the Cambridgeshire Fens, explores the “human landscape” — places where human presence intersects with the natural world. You can discover his Part 1 post and more of his writing and photography on Substack here.