Moody Hills and Monochrome Moments – Behind Pirnmill
Some days, colour just gets in the way. Today was one of those days.
I set off from Pirnmill with the intention of heading up into the hills, camera slung over my shoulder, not expecting much in the way of light. The sky was heavy with cloud, the sort that makes you instinctively zip your jacket right up to the chin. But far from dull, the grey light had a quiet intensity – the kind that pulls out textures and shapes you’d miss in bright sunshine.
Perfect for working in black and white.
The first thing to catch my eye was a line of twisted, pale-barked trees. They stood like a gathering of old storytellers, their trunks scarred by years of weather and wind, yet still holding their ground. There’s something timeless about them – they’ve seen far more seasons than we ever will. The dappled shade under their canopy framed them beautifully, a natural stage for their strange, elegant forms.
Further along, I came across the ruins of a small stone building. The walls were still standing, stubbornly holding their shape despite the years of rain, frost, and creeping moss. Through the gaps in the stonework, the hills beyond rose up, their slopes dark with heather and bracken. I couldn’t help but imagine the life that once filled this space, the warmth of a fire, the smell of woodsmoke, the sound of voices carried on the wind.
And then, the mountains themselves. The ridgeline loomed ahead, dark and jagged, dissolving into a restless tide of mist and low cloud. It was the kind of scene that makes you stop walking for a moment, just to take it all in, the weight of the place, the silence, the raw, untamed feel of it all. Every gust of wind seemed to push and pull the clouds in new directions, revealing and hiding the peaks in an endless dance.
It wasn’t a day for chasing golden light or dramatic colour. Instead, it was about tone, contrast, and the quiet drama of the hills. Days like this strip away distractions and leave only the essential elements – rock, tree, sky, and the stories they hold.
