Glenashdale Forest, Alternative Take - Viewed through a Bluebell’s Raindrop
(Glenashdale archives, May 2023)

In truth, I’ve known for a long time where I wanted to be: right down at the base of the falls, using the river itself as foreground as my camera looks up at the lower cascade. Usually, this type of composition would itself be standard fare at a waterfall - but not here at Glenashdale, where the dramatic local topology clearly has other ideas.

As you might expect, I’d tried to reach my desired vantage point before, on previous holidays. And even though I’m not averse to a spot of scrambling (I’m basically a big kid in that regard!), the precipitous ground and tangled undergrowth had always prevented me from descending to the river. So, ahead of this trip, I’d reached an inevitable conclusion: that my best chance of attaining the falls would be to follow Glenashdale Water upstream, sploshing up the river itself from way back near the start of the glen. This would be uncharted territory, and I didn’t expect it to be easy. What I did expect was a succession of rapids, pools, boulders and branches, all conspiring against me. Above all else, what it really needed was a sturdy pair of waders! ;-)

A Note on my ‘Night Cats’

My ‘Night Cat’ fishing waders have caused great hilarity ever since I innocently purchased them earlier this year. As such, up to the time of writing, I’ve discretely avoided being photographed in them.

Thankfully, upon being informed of this delicate situation, our friend Mel was kind enough to supply a pair of ‘build-your-own’ identikit stickers. These comprise a stock image of some natty ‘Night Cats’, plus a ‘Mini-Me’ snapped by Mel herself earlier in the holiday. Impressive enough singly, but combined: a veritable ‘Darth Wader’!

So, if anyone wants to recreate my look as I stumbled and sploshed my way up Glenashdale - here’s your chance!

In planning this venture, it seemed to me that timing and conditions would be crucial. More specifically, I was aiming for a kind of Goldilocks zone. If the river contained too little water, then the waterfalls would barely be worth photographing… yet, if water levels were high, the whole escapade could be downright dangerous (if not impossible).

The first week of our holiday was clearly at the former extreme - as evidenced by the Glen Rosa wildfire, there had been a prolonged dry spell for much of the spring. A visit to the Glenashdale outflow, on the shore of Whiting Bay, confirmed that it was scarcely a trickle. Fashion considerations aside, I began to wonder if I’d acquired those waders in vain.

But, being on the west coast of Scotland, we didn’t need to wait too much longer. The middle weekend brought a prolonged downpour, and I began to fear that the glen would soon be harbouring a raging torrent. So I delayed by a further day to let that subside, then set out just after dawn the following morning. With a little luck, I would be early enough to (a) not be seen walking through the village in my waders, and (b) escape any canyon-like deathtraps before more heavy rain swept in around 11am. I was unsure which of those two fates would be worse! :-0

Now let me also just say that I wasn’t approaching this undertaking lightly. The precise hazards were unknown, but the rocky river would clearly provide a challenging environment. I’d found no online references to what lay ahead, and was blissfully unaware (at the time) that an earlier aspirant had been forced to retreat after slipping headfirst into a pool. Still - I had my suspicions!

Psychologically, I was treating this as a grade 1 or 2 mountain scramble. Meaning: tread carefully and deliberately; keep concentrating; and be prepared to turn back if things turn hairy.

In fact, I was pretty sure that I would be turned back before reaching the main falls. I only hoped that whatever stopped me would itself be worth photographing - for that element of discovery could well be the most rewarding outcome of all.

Anyway, success number 1: my waders and I made it through the village without any audible sniggers! ;-)

As planned, I clambered into the Glenashdale Water at the point that the forest trail swung up and away. The next half mile or so was pure entertainment: not too difficult, but packed full of the aforementioned rapids, pools, boulders and branches. I sploshed and slithered past a couple of overgrown islands which split the main watercourse - and just beyond, a swathe of recently flattened vegetation marked the point at which a fallen tree had formed a dam and caused the swollen river to burst its banks. My decision to delay this expedition by a day had clearly been a prudent one!

The glen’s steeply wooded slopes squeezed ever inward: until, up ahead, I glimpsed the upper rim of a towering waterfall. Against all odds, it seemed that I was nearly there!

But then: the way ahead darkened, as though the river were emerging from a cavern - the walls closed in - and the Glenashdale Water became reduced to a single plunge pool, fed by two gushing cascades. This was beautiful and unexpected - yet it was also the end of the line!

As I neared the twin cascades, I could see that the plume on the right - which tumbled down from an overhang in an artful veil - was basically a small feeder burn. By contrast, the left-hand plume comprised the entirety of the river, constricted into a gap perhaps one foot across. Consequently, its power was enormous: it had gouged out a basin of ominous depth, to a suitably thunderous roar. I only wish my photographs could capture the cacophony!

Also - curiously - the river had washed down a tree trunk, which had wedged itself into the plunge pool and been worn smooth by the force of the water (which must be colossal when in spate). Or who knows, maybe this slippery pole had been strategically placed by ‘canyoners’ (more daring ones than myself!) as a means of conveying an adrenaline-fuelled ride up or down the waterfall?

Anyway, I’ll let the viewer decide whether the tree trunk spoils the scene or adds to its sense of quirkiness. Initial reaction includes both schools of thought. But either way, one thing is for certain… even armed with waders, I wasn’t about to move it out of the shot! ;-)

I decided to call this hidden bubbling recess The Cauldron. And, although inspired by the physical likeness, the name may be appropriate for another reason - for it does seem to be casting a spell of protection over the grander waterfalls above. But no matter; I was glad to have made its acquaintance.

Before turning around, I edged a little closer to the maelstrom - and it struck me that the dunked tree trunk was like a giant stirrer, mixing a potion out of the seething ingredients which continued to be poured in by an unseen hand. Hubble, bubble, toil and trouble… :-0

My return (downstream) journey was thankfully completed before the rains swept in on cue around 11am. As I neared my exit point from the Glenashdale Water, I encountered two forestry workers who were taking measurements across the river. They looked a little nonplussed to see someone emerge from the canyon, and I nodded casually as I splashed on by. In my mind, I imagined that I evoked something of an Indiana Jones vibe, striding purposefully from the jungle in a wide-brimmed hat. But then I remembered… I was still wearing those bloody fishing waders!

Hmm… it’s tricky being intrepid in waders.

Maybe I was less Indiana Jones, more Captain Haddock… ;-)

The Devil’s Punchbowl
(Satan’s Slice of Sannox)

It’s curious how often Old Nick, or his numerous Devilish monikers, are invoked in Great British place names. I suppose it harks back to a more superstitious time, when mountains and other dramatic features were seen as the abode of demons. Or maybe it’s purely poetic, a kind-of tongue-in-cheek means of signalling danger in the landscape.

I’m not particularly superstitious myself - but I must admit, whenever I encounter such spookily-named places, that frisson of excitement is never far away. Even as a child, I remember the element of nervous anticipation that accompanied innocent family visits to the Devil’s Chimney (Cotswolds) or the Devil’s Beeftub (Borders). Indeed, had I been more attentive, my recent exploration of Glenashdale would surely have led me to name-check the Devil’s Cauldron!

Yet life is all about balance - and ever since romantic painters and poets began to see the sublime in mountain landscapes, so the Devil’s grip has been steadily loosened. Mythology and folklore aside, geologists can tell us how these Devilish features actually came into being. For me, these artists and scientists don’t take away from the wonder - they enhance it. The superstitious origins are still there to enjoy, if that’s our thing… but we can now choose to revere these wild places, rather than fear them. A wee slice of heaven (you might say), re-claimed from the fiery pits of hell! :-0

Guardian of the Punchbowl: Cioch na h’Oighe
(Sannox archives, May 2019)

As for the Devil’s Punchbowl: this is a notorious feature of Arran’s hills, a giant scoop carved out of the north-eastern end of the Goatfell massif. Its headwall is particularly precipitous, being a favoured playground of Arran’s early rock climbers. More formally known as Coire na Ciche, it is (I suspect) mostly just seen from afar these days - or skirted at a high level by scramblers attaining the triangular peak of Cioch na h’Oighe, then clambering over the linking ridge to Mullach Buidhe.

The latter route is one which I’m scarily familiar with; for I passed this way back in May 2019, while traversing the southern part of the Glen Sannox skyline. My main interaction with the Punchbowl itself involved not plunging into it as I clawed my way up and around the adjacent granite slabs. I certainly had no time to explore the waterfalls which drain the bowl like perpetually spilt punch. I did, however, note their existence: and now, years later, I vowed to return with camera in hand! :-)

High on Cioch na h’Oighe: Punchbowl Headwall
(Sannox archives, May 2019)

So on the final morning of our holiday, with just one last-ditch chance of a photoshoot, I parked up at Sannox and began the familiar walk up the glen: past the grave of Edwin Rose (see The Curious Case of Rose and Laurie), then alongside the Sannox Burn’s wee gorge toward the abandoned baryte mines. Only this time, instead of carrying on up the glen, I followed my old 2019 route: turning left to follow the Allt a’ Chapuill feeder burn uphill, then striking off across the upper meadow to the Devil’s Punchbowl. I judged my target waterfalls to be around the 1,000-foot contour, just before the terrain got really serious. Compared to my 2019 venture, this should be a stroll in the park - yet I did need to factor in my chunky wellies, camera gear and tripod (not to mention those few extra years on the clock)! :-0

Approaching the Devil’s Punchbowl (scoop at centre left)
(Sannox archives, May 2019)

My aim here was clear, even if my chances of success were not: I was looking to continue my recent water theme by capturing a view of a waterfall with a craggy mountain beyond. In essence, I wanted to discover an entirely new (to me) ‘classic composition’. The trouble is: I seriously doubted that such a shot existed.

Many of us will be familiar with Buachaille Etive Mor across the River Coupall, or Sgurr nan Gillean from Sligachan. Or even, close by on Arran, Cìr Mhòr from Glenrosa Water or the Sannox Burn. Yet I’d never seen a shot of Cioch na h’Oighe - a highly worthy subject - with a dramatic watery foreground. Perhaps I’d missed it… or maybe (more likely), the local topography simply didn’t line up. Either way - this would be today’s quest! ;-)

Draining the Punchbowl
(My opening salvo of the photoshoot!)

It’s funny, but sometimes on a photoshoot - if you’re lucky - your very first shot will be ‘the one’… or at least, the best that you’re going to get on the day. My recent trip to Glen Rosa’s Blue Pool had been a prime example of this: I’d ended up trying several compositions, yet the one that had come most naturally (a vertical image with foreground cascade) remained my favourite. At such times, it’s easy to persuade yourself that a spontaneous, instinctive approach is the key to landscape photography.

However, I do have an over-riding rule: Be wary of applying rules! For there are definitely other occasions when it pays to ‘work the scene’… to gradually absorb the atmosphere of a place, and to fine-tune your chosen composition through trial and error.

The Devil’s Punchbowl turned out to be an example of the latter. Initially, upon leaving the Cioch na h’Oighe path and exploring the tumbling burn, I’d been excited to frame up almost anything that featured a waterfall and the mountain. I’d even stood my ground as the heavens briefly opened, a waterproof bag protecting my camera atop its tripod. (At least this topped up the burn a little!)

Don’t get me wrong, my opening picture is pleasant enough… however, in retrospect, the scene is a little generic. And crucially, neither the waterfall nor the mountain are sufficiently powerful in the frame to really grab the viewer’s attention. If I were being unkind, I’d say it’s unclear which is the main subject.

In my defence, though, this is what opening salvos are for - and I did at least carry on up the burn in search of something better. To be honest, I was happy just to be pottering around such a beautiful place. I’ve loved mountain streams since childhood, and a camera provides the perfect (grown-up) excuse to wind back the clock. After all, the meditative sights and sounds are as relevant here on Arran as they were a lifetime ago in the Himalayan foothills, when the Beatles were inspired to write Mother Nature’s Son:-

Sit beside a mountain stream, see her waters rise,
Listen to the pretty sound of music as she flies.

Moving on up the burn, I stumbled across a section of fast white water which resembled a steeply inclined mill race. My stance for shooting this was an interesting challenge: it involved leaping the rapids and balancing on a ledge of the mini-crag opposite, my three tripod legs- and indeed my own two legs - splayed out in a decidedly haphazard fashion.

This was compounded after my initial attempt, when I set myself the awkward task of shifting the camera position by just a few inches. I wasn’t happy that the upper branches of a bush had broken the skyline in quite a messy fashion: raising my stance slightly would neatly tuck them away (more or less!). Both shots are included here for posterity - and you can tell from the change in cloud that this minor adjustment took me a little while to enact!

I felt that my second attempt was also more effective in picking out the rocky summit of Cioch na h’Oighe, thanks to some convenient shadow. On the other hand, my original shows off the foreground rapids to much greater effect. And therein lies the problem with re-shoots: instead of achieving perfection, you just end up with a different set of compromises.

Then again - this can sometimes be a prompt to try a different composition entirely! :-)

Draining the Cloud?
(Mill Race Composition #1)

Spot the Difference!
(Mill Race Composition #2)

And so - for my next image, I hopped back over the burn and focused on the aforementioned bush. After all, it wasn’t the bush’s fault that its appendages had caused minor compositional chaos a few moments earlier!

Actually, I’d already spent some time trying to tee up a decent shot of this bush. It leant over the adjacent waterfall in quite an alluring manner - the kind of characterful pose which screams “Lone Tree!” to aspiring landscape photographers everywhere. Yet, try as I might, I just couldn’t isolate the bush from its khaki surrounds. If anything, it was kind-of camouflaged. It really needed a backdrop of sky - the classic silhouette - only then I’d lose the whole waterfall/mountain vibe which had been the original point of the shoot.

I captured the scene anyway, but couldn’t help feeling that something was missing…

The Burn ‘n’ Bush
(Back to landscape orientation,
as a lone tree does its level best to remain camouflaged!)

Or maybe it wasn’t that something was missing: maybe there was simply too much there in the first place. For sometimes, the art of composition isn’t about what to put in, but what to leave out. Yes, that leaning wee tree might be a great subject: but if it doesn’t work in the scene, it could be time for a re-think.

So I decided to try one more variant before packing up: I scrambled up the steep heather bank to my left, taking the tree out of frame, and set up my tripod looking back across the waterfall. In doing so, I’d also opened up more of the mountain - and I even discovered that a higher bush led the eye neatly between falls and summit. The tumbling burn itself was clearly the main subject, though balanced (I hoped) within the scene. I realised that this was the composition I’d been looking for all along. I awaited the light and then took my final shot…

Angel Falls or Fallen Angel?
(Light and Shade at the Devil’s Punchbowl)

Of course, it’s easy to get caught up in all of these minor photographic adjustments, and to lose sight of the bigger picture (as it were). But, as with any artform, the end result - the photo, painting, poem or song - has only really succeeded if some sort of emotional connection has been made… or a feeling has been conveyed.

They do say that a picture paints a thousand words. So, if someone were to ask me, “Why do you love Arran’s wee hills?”, I hope that I could simply point to this image and reply, “There - that’s why!”. And they might not get it - the picture might not say enough - but still, there’s something uniquely compelling about the conversation.

Addendum - The Hare(s) and The Tortoise

While descending from the Devil’s Punchbowl, I’d just re-joined the Cioch na h’Oighe path when I met four young women who were running up the mountain, puffing and panting. I felt guilty saying hello, as they could scarcely spare the breath to reply.

Now the fitness and dedication of fell-runners - or in this case, Goatfell-runners - is astounding. But this encounter did bring home to me the marked contrast in our respective approaches. After all, I’d just spent two or three hours exploring a few yards of the stream in minute detail, absently watching the clouds as they scudded across the sun and dappled the landscape.

A few short years ago, that had been me swarming up those granite slabs of Cioch na h’Oighe - not running (obviously!), yet still forging onward and upward. So it got me wondering: was I growing lazy in my old age?

Well, maybe. Or maybe, in keeping with the origins of Mother Nature’s Son, it’s a form of meditation. Either way, I reckon I’ll stick with it. The slow pace suits me.

As for the Devil’s Punchbowl - well, I don’t think there’s anything too hellish about it after all. Except for the early start. Not to mention the lack of actual punch! ;-)