Highland FLING

It was summer 1994 when, with a gleaming property brochure in my hand and apprehension running riot in my stomach, I drove up a windy, wooded glen shadowed by towering Scots pines. When the trees petered out, Ballintean Farm came into view – its yard littered with dilapidated caravans and an eclectic mix of rusty machinery. I had no idea what I’d expected, but this wasn’t it. An hour or so later, I thanked the farmer for showing me around but told him: “It’s too big, too much money and too much work.” I was glad to drive away. Six months later, I moved in.

I spent the first 15 years of my working life trawling Britain’s motorways driving trucks. Chomping on endless chocolate bars, I had plenty of time to reflect on the world and my place within it. As the years rolled by, a growing unease set in. I started to resent the injustice around our relationship with nature and, eventually, I knew I could no longer be a bystander. I made the decision to turn a passing interest in nature photography into a profession. I