While I will always hanker to visit Iceland, the Lofoten Islands and the Scottish Highlands, I am beginning to think that it is on roads less travelled that I will find truly original subjects for my work. This image was made on the River Findhorn near the Moray coast in Scotland This is not a corner of the Highlands that has been as heavily photographed as Skye or Glencoe but I found the beauty of this small canyon entrancing. The light bounces off the Findhorn’s granite walls while the river itself reflects the Spring skies overhead. This suggests to me that I must work harder in the future to identify less obvious locations for my work, and not merely follow the crowd.

As photographers, we talk a lot about the photographic process from original planning, through the making of an image, to post processing - and then what? A post on Instagram, an update to our website galleries - or a final, physical print? It may, of course, be all of these and more, but a recent experience has led me to consider whether I can truly make a final judgement about an image unless I have seen it as a final, physical print.

This image records my first encounter with Antarctica - even though land still lay 150 miles further on. I felt there was something otherworldly about this vast iceberg that had broken off the main continental shelf and was now drifting into oblivion - unique, awe-inspiring and ghostly in its silence and decay.

A further photographic expedition to Northern Norway - Lofoten, Vesteralen and Senja - brings technical and physical challenges as temperatures remained well below zero. But the bitter cold, plentiful snow and blue light created many opportunities for stimulating images - a welcome change from the rather soggy and disappointing winter in southern England this year.

A late-November visit to the Ardnamurchan peninsula, the most westerly point of mainland Britain, offers ever-changing light, quiet white-shell beaches and coastal drama. The experiment of a week of self-imposed isolation in this remote part of Scotland proved to be creatively stimulating and mentally restorative. With a little patience and willingness to ignore gloomy weather predictions, fellow photographers should appreciate Ardnamurchan for its diversity of landscapes, dramatic coastlines, sandy beaches and ancient woodlands. It is a fine place to wander and to ponder the frenetic pace of our lives beyond.

A street image of a 1951 photograph of American singer, Eartha Kitt - being used to advertise the reopening of the National Portrait Gallery in London. I hope that my response to Russell Westwood’s 1951 image creates the idea that Eartha Kitt is still here and as relevant today as she was 75 years ago - vibrantly unique - and still singing and dancing her way through London’s ‘Theatreland’.

Distinguished war photographer, and founder of Magnum, Robert Capa, is credited with the observation that: “If your pictures aren't good enough, you're not close enough.” This has been taken as a maxim regarding the need for physical proximity - especially out on the street. But was Capa really talking about physical proximity or was he seeking to imply emotional immediacy instead? Or perhaps both?

The sea is alluring. It holds a deep fascination for so many people – particularly those of us who live here in Britain. The sea and coastal littorals provide opportunities to make a remarkable range of images that can convey the feelings and emotions of any photographer in that place and time. I think I am always attracted to making images of the sea and coast because they are in a state of constant flux. It is an ever-changing landscape that emphasises the weather and the light while being less dependent on the slow change of the seasons. Being there is what it is all about.

As we stand on the cusp of Spring, it feels as though we are emerging from a particularly long winter. One of the joys of being a landscape photographer is that it forces me to observe the changing seasons carefully, noting the sudden bursts of blossom that announce the end of winter’s hibernation.

Making images of rock faces is an area of my photographic practice that remains a constant. I am never bored on a rocky beach because I know I will eventually find either a natural sculpture or a recurring pattern that will draw my mind’s eye and provide me with food for my thoughts.

There is something beguiling about trees and woodlands. And like many people, I particularly enjoy these as photographic subjects during the autumn and winter months. Shorn of leaves, there is a skeletal beauty to many trees. There is also something rather soothing about entering the silence of a wood, the quiet crunch of fallen leaves and the occasional crack of a branch or twig underfoot.

The 1920s Isokon Building in north London is a challenge to photograph. Lawn Road is not broad enough to allow the observer to stand back. Trees have grown and cars are parked. Nevertheless, whenever I wander along the street, I am attracted to making images that try to convey the industrial essence of modernism and, at the same time, capture a briefly optimistic era before Britain was once more plunged into the maelstrom of war.

The combination of the bright colours of a children’s roundabout on the promenade in Weymouth set against the winter grey of sky and sea suggests ideas of summer to come, of children and parents, of ice cream and candifloss, and of warm beaches and youthful flirtation. Adopting a square-on perspective breaks the traditional ‘rules’ of composition: avoiding obvious leading lines and instead allows the layers of the image to tease and intrigue the eye.

My recent trip to the Lofoten Islands in northern Norway not only fulfilled my enjoyment of remote landscapes (see previous blog) but also left me with a heightened sense of the remoteness and challenges of living above the Arctic Circle. Accordingly, as well as striving to capture the stark beauty of Lofoten’s remarkable landscapes, I also tried to make some images that reflected my response to the intense cold, the sense of loneliness that pervades the area during the dark winter months, and my salute to those who live amongst such harsh beauty.

In January, I was fortunate to spend a week in Lofoten with a group of fellow Norwegian photographers. Lofoten is an area of northern Norway, comprising a series of connected islands that form a peninsula jutting westwards into the Norwegian Sea, above the Arctic Circle. The region had just emerged from the short period of ‘Polar Night’ around the turn of the New Year when the sun does not rise above the horizon. And it was cold - icy cold. The days were still brief but there was more than enough light to make images in the remarkable landscape - and it was overwhelmingly blue.