THE CLAPP COLUMN
How my dreams of an island relocation to find the nirvana of the north were shattered in a small supermarket on Islay, when the local ladies started to unleash a Co-op coup think it's fair to say that all of us dream of escaping to an island, at some point in our lives. I have a real obsession with islands, and in my time as a photographer I have been to many of the most photogenic islands around the British Isles.
In the summer of 2021, Rachel and I headed off on an island-bagging trip to Scotland. The mission was to visit eight in total in my camper van, simply to keep costs to a minimum and also to have a lot of fun. The van has a great collection of photography and musical equipment, including a 1920 Clifford Essex banjo about which I have become somewhat obsessed. The next two islands are Islay (pronounced ‘eye-ler’) and Jura.
A brother and sister, with Jura being known for its famous whisky distillery.
The crossing was easy, and as we drove west from the Feolin ferry port towards Bowmore, where the heather reminded me of the Peak District. My idea was to explore Portnahaven for its rows of cottages, Lower Killayen for its cliffs and as many old abandoned crofts as I could find, marking them on a GPS.
The first one was a classic. It had a huge hole in the roof with a tree growing out of it, a front room with a stack of old TVs and pink bedroom furniture. I shot it in infrared on my full spectrum Canon EOS RP, using my new aero chrome filter, which renders trees with wonderful autumnal colours; with my Canon EF 24-70mm f/4L IS USM, at f/11, 1/250 sec and ISO400. I changed the aspect ratio to square then shot some images
The second target was high on a hill of a neighbouring working dairy farm. A old farmer appeared to be stone dead, lying motionless on the carpet in front of a peat fire. Thankfully he moved and then looked up at me, appearing rather scared. I parked my idea of breaking in to save his life, spoke to his son and dodged some steroid-crazed heifers for the joy of shooting ‘more old crap’ as Rachel calls it.
We moved onwards to Bowmore, spent the night outside the village in a country lane before heading for the Co-op.
“Sorry mate we’re closing,” I was to
