Lining the Brae at the back of the croft are ancient trees, mostly Sycamores, but with a scattering of Oaks. They stand like guardians casting cooling shade across the track. Rolling away from the trees are the fertile strips of land which have fed the villagers of Plockton for generations. Caught in the soft golden light of the gloaming, the trees and the crops seem to be illuminated from within, the whole landscape shimmering with soft light.
Photographers around the world delight in the soft light of the golden hour, just after sunrise, and just before sunset. However this far north they are the golden hours, with the sunlight barely leaving the sky before it rises again in the morning. This twilight, or gloaming, casts a surreal inner glow across the land, creating a long liminal space between day and night. Neither one nor the other, this is a time caught between the normal rules of light and dark. This is a time where nothing is hard and fast, and truth itself has soft edges.
Late into the evening, maybe around 11 O’Clock, these trees were still humming. I sat with my back against a trunk and gazed up into the golden branches, filled with invisible bees. I could almost feel the vibration of the collective hum reverberate deep with my chest. The air around seemed to shimmer with the voices of a million wings singing into the slowly fading light.
In this space where the real and the unreal twist and weave their threads together, anything is possible. Nothing feels surprising, because from this in between space creativity bubbles out. The inside can be found on the outside, and the outside slides in between the gaps. It can feel like taking a bath in golden inspiration with myth and fairy tale feeling as real as science and numbers. As above so below, sing the birds, as the sky falls into water, and the grass climbs into the air.
Find more photos of the Golden Hour at this weeks Photo Challenge