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The Isolation of Winter

by Paul Gallagher

While I love autumn and spring I have always preferred making photographs in the winter months; there is something about the starkness of trees stripped of foliage, or the muted light, and often the lack of sunlight, that I feel portrays the landscape as 'realistic' and something that displays elements that are conducive, for me at least, making beautiful photographs.

Scotland is a place I love to visit during the winter months. From November to February the place seems yet more remote and empty, certainly in comparison to the busier seasons when motor homes are plentiful and the coffee shops are full of tourists and travellers. During the winter months the landscape is devoid of anything that could be regarded as a lure to the casual tourist. Hotels close down, gift shop owners hang their 'Closed for Season' signs and the skies darken with storms; daylight dwindles to a few hours between 10am and 4pm, some places never see the sun all day.

Along with these conditions come two emotions. Firstly, the feeling that I am alone out there. It is clear that I am not and although the villages and hamlets seem sleepy and desolate, they aren't and the evidence of this is apparent during the school run when they come alive with the sound of excited voices. Secondly, an emotion which naturally follows being alone, is a degree of vulnerability. This was brought home strongly about 10 years ago when I headed out from Elgol on the Isle of Skye. It was a fierce and stormy February afternoon and as I made my way around the edge of Loch Scavaig I took a hard fall on the slippery boulders. I thought I had broken my leg and as I was within the tidal zone I checked myself over with rising panic. The sense of isolation was palpable for that short moment in time before I confirmed I could still move.

Experiences such as this heighten the senses and become an ingredient to convey when making photographs during these times. Having photographed many countries in the winter I felt compelled to extend this experience almost to the limit and this eventually came in the form of two specific trips. The first was to the south coast of Iceland in the first week of February 2015 and the second, for me the most exciting winter trip, was to Lofoten in Norway, in January 2016.

It was clear to me, having been to both of these locations many times, that what I would see would be markedly different in the full winter conditions guaranteed so early in the year. Iceland is the busier of the two locations and ever since I first travelled there some years ago, its popularity in the warmer season is all too evident at the famous roadside stops. The beginning of February proved to be too early for the general tourists and many of the normally busy areas were bereft of people and, as with Scotland, the supporting tourist industry, was on winter shut-down.

The first thing I recall was the temperature (it was obviously low) and added to this was the prevailing wind, driving in from the Atlantic with relentless, skin-numbing determination. The daylight hours in February proved not to be as limiting as I suspected. The sun rose about 10am and set just after 5pm, giving me seven hours of working light. Iceland can be prone to inclement weather but during my visit there was no rain as the temperatures remained too low; snow, however, was delivered in healthy portions, but not so much as to obliterate the detail of the landscape. The light was the best I had ever seen in Iceland. With the sun being so low in the sky but with enough strength over the horizon to illuminate the landscape, it offered a warm glow and was never harsh. When I arrived the conditions were almost perfect with diffused light on the landscape and dark skies above. A truly perfect combination!

As I drove out that first morning everything that I had experienced or photographed before was entirely different. As the sun pushed up above the horizon the entire place had been coated in a deep layer of fine, dry snow and with every surge of the Atlantic air, the white snowdrift took to the air again. Everything and everywhere became a revitalised scene.

I could not rely on any returning to a familiar place to carry on where I left off; I had to completely reconsider the newly transformed landscape before me – consider it a blank canvas on which to begin afresh.

The mighty waterfalls, those white masses cascading over black basalt cliffs during the warmer months, were now caverns, lined in icefalls that supported icicles over a metre long. At the base of the waterfalls there were huge accumulations of ice, resembling giant sculptures and the falling waters were a cold blue. The waterfalls, however cold it was, still continued to flow and, in certain light, the black rocks became almost as blue as the skies above. The other features that had been transformed by the harsh winter were the rivers. Although the coldest of the winter months had passed, the water had continued to flow in them and ice plateaus had formed which had been shaped by the direction of flow.

These features and shapes fascinated me and drew me onto the edge of the water as it roared past. One lesson I learned setting up my camera was that as solid and glass-like as the ledges looked, this was the beginning of the thaw and one such ledge collapsed beneath my boots, pitching me into the shallowest part of the river.

Probably one of the most incredible things about working in river environments at this time of year is that the thaw causes the massive ice plates to break up. The flow of the river had increased with the beginning of the melt and plates of ice had been lifted and pushed onto the surrounding area of the river plain. Arriving there in the evening was a real treat as the sun was setting. At my feet were vast areas of ice that were thick enough to walk upon. The evening light raked across the floor and lit up the ice sheets – giving them an inner glow.

One aspect of Iceland's landscape that has always enticed me is the raised beaches – the flat lands that separate the sea from the inland cliffs and which were once the immersed sea beds. With winter, these become vast, open white spaces and, with the intertidal lakes completely frozen, perfectly flat except for the occasional glacial erratic piercing the ice. One midday I arrived to heavily laden skies containing the next blizzard with the distant low-lying sun providing the only element of colour in this very monochromatic wilderness.

The locations that appeared unchanged by winter were the black beaches at Jokulsarlon and Lonsfjordur. The main benefit of photographing these beaches in the winter is the low sun, and of course, when the storms arrive which makes it even more spectacular! Lastly, do not assume that because you are in the Icelandic winter you will see icebergs in profusion in either Jokulsarlon Lagoon or on the adjoining beaches. When I was there all I was presented with was a few very lonely looking tiny lumps of ice covered in black wind-blown sand!

Iceland was, and always will be, an amazing place for photographers but if somebody forced me to choose between there or Lofoten, then Lofoten would win. I landed in the little town of Leknes on 6 January 2016. Once again I knew that winter conditions were guaranteed but my only concern was the availability of light. On paper, the sun was due to rise at 11.40 and set at 12.40. It may seem like a ludicrous proposition to travel there in the first place, but I was relying on the transitional periods before and after the sun appearing in the sky – my calculations turned out to be correct.

I arrived in a little, twin-engine plane through a pretty fierce snow storm in pitch darkness and made my way to my apartment in Ballstad. The moment you make your way down the steps of the plane it becomes apparent that you are in the Arctic Circle and in the depths of an Arctic winter. As I was unloading my car there was a weak but beautiful Aurora Borealis dancing in the skies above me. The following morning, I headed out at about 10am to some of the locations I know very well. As with Iceland, the place was utterly different to anything I had experienced during my previous visits. Everything, and I do mean everything, was frozen solid. As a drove in the very weak pre-dawn light, the landscape was a cold blue and the skies showed a hint of warmth on the very distant horizon.

From my experience there are three types of light that you have to work with. Pre-dawn light, cold blue daylight and a breath-taking sunset warmth as the sunlight bounces low off lingering clouds. I had to work as quickly as I could with the limited daytime but what I experienced was some of the best light I had every worked with in over 30 years of photographing landscapes. Needless to say, that any environment near water, (and many of the locations I love in Lofoten, fall directly into a category), are very dangerous with ice. As I mentioned, everything is frozen, and the ice at the edge of the sea is absolutely solid, often ginclear and affords you no grip beneath your feet. For that reason alone, I wore (and drove in!) a full set of very heavy-duty Canadian ice studs the entire time. Along with the ice studs on my boots, it is worth mentioning that a tripod without BIG spikes with be pretty much useless as your camera set-up will simply slide away into the sea!

I was totally engrossed while I was working and the short daylight hours would pass so quickly that it became apparent in my selection of filters and exposure times. Although the official sunrise and sunset times seemed ridiculously close together, I actually found useful light between 10.30 am and 3pm. Reviewing my camera files each night I was shocked at how blue the light was when the sun was at its highest in the sky and when represented in the finished image, it looked as though the blues had been pushed at the processing stages, but in reality the landscape is actually frozen blue.

I have a few places I would always visit when I am in Lofoten. To see and photograph them in this light left me speechless. I recall arriving at the rocky outcrops on the coastline that stand facing the mountains of Flakstad. It was midday and there was a pale hint of yellow in the sky above the mountains and the ice was like glass and deep blue. I returned to this location a few days later when there was cloud in the sky and the low sun bounced off the clouds and changed everything before me into a warm glow of orange and yellows.

Clear skies were not always present and sometimes a gentle covering of cloud would be replaced by a sky of deep, menacing greys – soon to be followed by a blizzard from which you simply had to take cover; the wind that carried it would be bitterly cold and gnawing at your face. I recall arriving at Uttakleiv and Myrland as the light was dying off before the long night began, and standing on the edge of the fjord where the surrounding landscape was once again blue and watching as the horizon became the most vivid pink of twilight. I wandered along the frozen white sands of Haukland as the ebb and flow of the incoming waves pushed their way up the beach and instantly froze before they had the chance to retreat.

On my last afternoon I took the road east from Leknes over the hills towards Stamsund and followed its winding path along the fjord edge.

I explored the intertidal zone and the otherworldly features created by the Arctic winter. During the night the fjord tides would rise and with the harsh drop in temperature, the seawater would freeze. As the tide retreated and the water levels dropped, the layer of ice would rest on the boulder fields at the edge of the fjord and gently crack. Facing east the skies retained a little more of their yellow evening warmth. I spent every last minute here until my hands and feet were numb and I realised it was time to get some food and warmth.

Having completed these trips and looking at the photographs I have made on them, I now feel compelled to go back each year. In fact, I actually have my flights booked to head up to Tromsø in northern Norway in January 2017. You have short days with very harsh temperatures, hard winds that feel like they will cut you in half regardless of your clothing layers– but the rewards far outweigh the challenges. It was in Lofoten that I witnessed the most rapid change in temperature I have ever experienced. I was nestled on the edge of a fjord blissfully working away and decided to move on. I arrived back at the car and the temperature gauge indicated it was -5°C. I began the drive to my next location and saw the skies above me turn a deep purple/blue; it was apparent that weather was arriving from the north. On arrival I got out the car to feel a threatening cold from the prevailing wind off the landscape. I made one exposure and began packing away my kit. I vividly recall retracting the legs of my tripod and thin sheets of ice shedding off into the dry air. I got back into the car, put the heaters on full and noticed the outside temperature had plummeted, within 10 minutes, to -20ºC!



Updated 27/04/2026 16:44:22 Last Modified: Monday, 27 April 2026