Mist & stone, above the Quiraing

They wanted a day without an audience — no schedule to keep, nobody to perform for. So we met at five in the morning in a car park at the foot of the Quiraing, with two thermos flasks and a forecast that changed its mind every hour.

By the time we reached the ridge the cloud had come down to meet us. They read their vows to each other in it, and then — as if on cue — it lifted, and the whole valley appeared beneath them.

Weather as a guest

We stopped trying to outrun the rain and started photographing it instead: wet wool, a borrowed umbrella, the light going silver for ten minutes at a time. By lunch we were drinking whisky by a peat fire in Portree, and nobody wanted to go home.