Sunset over Jura

The sun was folding itself into the Sound of Jura when I took this. A slow descent behind the island’s northern edge, casting long shadows across the water and softening everything it touched. The light wasn’t dramatic—it was deliberate. A quiet fade, not a spectacle.

Carsaig Bay was still. The tide had pulled back just enough to expose the shingle, and the boats sat motionless, as if listening. The sea held the sky like glass, reflecting the orange spill of dusk with a kind of reverence. Jura stood in silhouette—solid, distant, and strangely intimate.

This image isn’t about grandeur. It’s about presence. About the way light leaves, and what remains in its absence. I didn’t frame it to impress—I framed it to remember. The hush. The weight of the moment. The way the land and sea conspired to hold the sun just a little longer.

Photography, for me, is this: noticing. Not capturing, not claiming. Just noticing. And letting the silence become visible.