Combining a cow and a hill is not the most promising of premises for an artwork—the concept would miss many an editor’s cut. But I sensed that this was a very special moment in time.

It shows the Highlands of Scotland as we know them—imbued with atmosphere, dominated by grandeur, and enveloped in mystery. The image brings to mind whiskey, bonhomie, and a barbarous past. The history of the Highlands is dark and unruly, and I think there is a nod to that here. Buachaille Etive Mor is a spectacular peak. It guards the eastern entrance to Glencoe like a centurion in ancient Rome. Its much-photographed and emblematic rock face is best complemented not by blue skies, but by the weather that defines western Scotland—dark and low
clouds that put a menacing ceiling on
the wilderness that lies below.

I could have gone to Glencoe at
any time, but I chose the last days of spring, as I wanted the hint of cold
and the additional tonal breadth
that the remaining snow pockets give to the scene. There is such simplicity to the image, and yet it can grab and
hold attention for much longer than the premise suggests.

Photography without emotion is nothing, and when I look at this image, it evokes childhood memories on a grand scale. There is a timeless, almost prehistoric, element to the content, and while we will never know, there
is a sense that this pairing could have also happened thousands of years
ago. As a country our glorious days
of engineering and invention may be behind us, but the one constant is
the unique rawness and geological drama of places such as Glencoe.