The Land That Time Forgot by Cameron Scott

Sitting 466m above sea level, surrounded by the Lowther Hills in southern Scotland, Wanlockhead is Scotland’s highest village. Lead and other mineral deposits, including the gold used in the making of the Scottish crown, have been mined here since Roman times, although as an industry it gained prominence in the 17th century when a smelting plant and miners cottages were built, and it hasn’t really moved on much since. Given that it’s a short drive from where I live, I’ve visited it many times over the years, mainly to walk and run in the surrounding hills, although I also cycled through it in my bike racing days as it sits at the top of a very hilly training route.

It is bleak, very bleak. Even on a bright, warm summer’s day it is still bleak. There’s never any sign of active life, save for smoke belching from some cottage chimneys. Cars seem to go here to die, there’s scrap lying everywhere. And then there’s the remnants of the mining. A narrow gauge railway, originally used to transport ore, is open to tourists in the summer months, although I’ve yet to see it in use. The small lead mining museum provides a visitor attraction, as does it’s toilets to those who find themselves passing through on some arduous journey along the winding roads in this part of the country.

I’ve tried to capture what I think is the essence of this place on camera many times, and failed at each attempt. However, after a recent snowfall I thought I’d give it another go. Driving along the winding valley road on approach, I could see that the cloud would most likely be at ground level – ideal! I stopped at one point and climbed down the steep hillside to capture an image of the two approach roads converging and then leading into the distance. A bitterly cold wind made this a very short stop.

Once in the village the conditions didn’t disappoint. Low cloud and snow made the land and sky converge into one. The snow was just deep enough to provide contrasting detail in the detritus at the far end of the village where the ruins and slag heap were, this being the area I wanted to record.

Although the air temperature was probably just below freezing it was cold, very cold. Very bleak and very cold. The sort of cold that it’s impossible to wrap up against. It gets into your bones as my grandmother used to say. The only other sign of life was a single set of footprints in the snow, which strangely seemed to stop for no reason, and there were no return footprints.

In the absence of life ice patterns provided some foreground interest in the scapes that I made. For once it seemed that the camera battery might last longer than me, so once I had made my frames I hurried back to the sanctuary of the car and headed back to civilisation, leaving the cold behind.

By the way, did I mention that it was very cold?