I’ve been in love with black and white photography for as long as I can remember. In my younger years, I’d pore over old monochrome prints—grainy and imperfect. They seemed to breathe with quiet truth, as if whispering stories from another time. Even then, I sensed there was something deeply honest about them—a way of seeing that spoke not just to the eye, but to something quieter within.
There’s something timeless about the world in black and white. When colour falls away, so does the noise. What remains is light, texture, and emotion—the pure, unfiltered essence of a moment.
These days, my photography begins on foot. Walking is where everything starts—along woodland trails, across open hills, and through the folded stillness of the countryside. Walking teaches patience; it teaches you how to really see. With each step, the landscape shifts—a veil of mist lifting through the trees, light flickering over stone, the wind stirring softly through tall grass. Out here, seeing becomes a kind of listening.
My phone has become my camera now—a small, steady companion that’s always with me. It waits patiently in my pocket, ready for the fleeting play of light or a moment that asks to be remembered.
Colour, though, is woven deeply into these places. The deep greens of summer, the burnt gold of evening light, the blue hush of dusk—each a note in the song of the land. Yet sometimes, I feel drawn to silence that music for a moment, to turn the world monochrome again.
A tree half-lost in fog. Rain glinting on a wall of slate. Light falling softly over a far ridge. In black and white, the scene becomes less about what is seen and more about what is felt—less about beauty, more about presence.
I think of these images as small gifts—to myself, and to anyone walking alongside me through the frame. Because both walking and photography are acts of attention. They ask us to slow down, to notice the in-between places, to find meaning in the fleeting details of the world.
And maybe that’s what black and white photography reminds us of most: that even without colour, the world is still full of light.
Every so often, I’ll share black and white photographs alongside my journal entries. They’re not there simply to show where I’ve walked, but to capture how a place felt in a given moment. Without colour, a photograph becomes something quieter—more like a sketch in light and shadow than a record of time and place. I hope you’ll see them that way too: as small pieces of art, shaped by mood, texture, and the gentle rhythm of the landscape itself.