When I first started taking landscape photographs, I tended to think the best images depended on a few key things: faraway locations, dramatic light at sunrise or sunset, wide sweeping vistas full of detail, and a full bag of gear to match. Over time, I realised none of those ideas were essential in the way I had first thought.
One of the first beliefs that proved untrue was that I needed to travel to find far-flung locations. I remember spending evenings scrolling through maps and photo spots, planning trips to places that felt like “proper” photography destinations. It made photography feel like something that only really happened elsewhere. But when I started going out locally instead, I began noticing things I had always overlooked. Quiet corners of familiar paths, mist hanging low after rain, small details in places I would normally have walked straight past.
My ideas about light were another expectation that didn’t really hold up in practice. I used to focus almost entirely on sunrise and sunset, treating them as the only times worth being out with a camera. I would arrive early, wait for something dramatic to develop, and often leave disappointed when it didn’t happen. On the occasions when the light did appear, I would rush between viewpoints trying to make the most of it, usually coming away with very little that felt settled. At other times I simply wouldn’t shoot at all, dismissing the conditions as “bad” light. Over time, I realised there isn’t really such a thing as bad light, just different conditions that ask for different approaches.
That shift only really started to make sense in the field, particularly on quieter, overcast days when I would still head out regardless of the forecast. One of those periods was along the Northumberland Coast, where the light barely changed for days at a time. Instead of waiting for something to improve, I ended up walking the beaches and working much more slowly, using long exposures around the rocks and paying attention to shape, movement, and texture rather than contrast or colour. It wasn’t what I would previously have considered “good” conditions, but it became clear that there was still plenty to work with, just in a different way.
My attitude towards composition shifted most noticeably on a walk up Clee Hill. Reaching the top, I expected it to be one of those views where everything could be brought together in a single frame. The landscape opened out in every direction, distant fields and ridges stretching into the haze. While I was there, my shots already felt like they weren’t quite working, but it wasn’t until I got home that I understood why. I had tried to include far too much, reducing the scene to small distant elements with no clear point of focus. It felt more like recording information than responding to a place.
Gear has probably been one of the longer lessons. Over time, I’ve gradually reduced what I take with me into the field. There are still moments when I miss having something I’ve left behind, and it occasionally presents small challenges, but the trade-off has been worth it. Every kilogram saved makes the walking easier, the experience more relaxed, and gives me more freedom to respond to what’s in front of me. In turn, that has had a noticeable effect on the photographs themselves as well.
Looking back now, the biggest change has not been technical at all. It has been in how I approach a place before I even take a photograph. There is less pressure to find something impressive, and more attention on what is already there, often in quieter, less obvious moments.
Most of the ideas I started with were not entirely wrong, but they were limiting in ways I did not fully understand at the time. Letting them go did not make photography more complicated. If anything, it made it feel more open, and far less forced.