A deep breath and the touch of wind. The scent of wet earth, sea breeze, and warm scones — that’s what I brought back with me from Scotland. These impressions, although fleeting, have anchored themselves deeply, reminding me of everything this journey was.

I hadn’t planned much. I simply knew I wanted to photograph what truly moved me. And here, nature felt wild. Vast. Untamed. There was something raw and exceptional in the way it presented itself – moody, unpredictable, at times almost hostile. I embraced it as it was, and in return, I was gifted with five rolls of film full of rugged Scottish landscapes. I’m not sure if a single human trace made it into any frame. That’s the kind of journey it was – wild, offline, and often off-road.

But during the trip, a quiet doubt started to grow. Was it fair to photograph Scotland like this – so untouched, so isolated? Is it honest? The north truly is remote, and it’s easy to avoid tourists with the right lens. But in more popular areas like the Isle of Skye or Glen Coe National Park, it takes more effort. I did manage – I “tricked” the system. But should I have? Should I idealize a place by carefully curating what’s left out of the frame? Is that my role as an artist? These questions lingered long after the shutter clicks.

Still, what stayed with me most wasn’t the scenery itself, but the way of being it invited. A life that felt free – attuned to touch, smell, and taste. Attentive to light, which plays such a central role in my photography. I rejoiced in the bad weather, the light drizzle, the mist. “Good,” I’d tell myself. “My film likes that.” And honestly? So do I. This is the kind of journey I seek. One shaded by melancholy, which deepens my awareness and makes me pause.

I disconnected from the world. And now, I’m slowly reconnecting – gently smuggling a bit of that Scottish freedom into my everyday life.