A hushed stillness permeates this dawn scene at Cullen Bay. The air, thick with the damp chill of the Moray coast, hangs heavy. It is a moment of quiet anticipation, not of dramatic sunrise, but of a subtle shift in the greys and blues that define this seascape. The sea stack, a raw, angular brute of rock, juts from the water like a fossilized claw, a stark contrast to the ethereal, almost liquid quality of the surrounding sea.
The long exposure of 30 seconds has turned the water into a swirling, ghostly mist, obscuring the usual sharpness of the waves. It is as if the sea itself is holding its breath, waiting for the day to truly begin. The sky offers no dramatic bursts of colour, but rather a gentle, gradual lightening. It is a scene of quiet strength, of resilience etched in stone and softened by the sea’s embrace.
There is a sense of isolation to it, a feeling of being adrift in a world of muted tones and whispered secrets. The sea stack, a lonely sentinel, stands as a testament to the enduring power of the elements, a silent witness to the ebb and flow of time. This is not a scene that shouts for attention, but rather one that invites quiet contemplation, a moment to appreciate the subtle beauty of a dawn on the Scottish coast. I could almost smell the salt, felt the damp chill on my skin, and heard the soft sigh of the tide. It was a moment of quiet, powerful presence.
