Returning to the Skelligs: A Photographer’s Obsession

There are places that make an impression the first time you see them—and then there are places that never let you go. For me, the Skelligs are the latter. The first time I laid eyes on them, rising out of the Atlantic like jagged shards of another world, I knew I would return. What I didn’t know was how many times, or how much those returns would shape my work, my process, and my understanding of what it means to really know a place.

The Skelligs—Skellig Michael and Little Skellig—are not easy companions. They’re remote, weather-beaten, and fiercely unpredictable. They’re home to ancient monastic ruins, storm-blasted cliffs, and tens of thousands of seabirds. They’re also home, in a way, to some of the most meaningful photographs I’ve made.

Knowing a Place by Returning to It

There’s a widely held idea that the key to compelling landscape photography is dramatic scenery. While that certainly doesn’t hurt, the truth is more complex—and more interesting. The most powerful images don’t just come from visiting a spectacular location. They come from revisiting it. From seeing it under different skies, different tides, different moods. From noticing what most people miss because they haven’t looked long enough.

Returning again and again to the Skelligs has allowed me to develop an intuitive sense of their rhythms. I know how the light falls through the south window of the monastery at dawn. I know how the gannets of Little Skellig lift off in great bursts at particular wind speeds. I know when the mist rolls in from the west and wraps the stone in silence. These aren’t things you can know from a single visit, or even a few. They come from time—and from paying attention.

The First Visits: Awe and Overwhelm

My early photographs of the Skelligs reflect the awe I felt just being there. The sheer presence of the islands—especially Skellig Michael with its dry-stone oratories and gravity-defying stairs—is overwhelming. I responded with wide angles, dramatic light, and compositions that tried to hold it all at once.

Those images weren’t wrong—but over time, my response changed. Awe gave way to curiosity, and curiosity gave way to intimacy. I stopped trying to capture everything and started focusing on something. A curve of dry-stone wall. The play of shadow across a beehive hut. The quiet light just before the sun lifts over the Atlantic.

The Unseen Work

One of the truths of landscape photography is that most of the work never gets seen. For every image that makes its way into a frame or onto a wall, there are dozens of visits, hours of waiting, and conditions that never quite aligned. On the Skelligs, that’s multiplied. The weather window is narrow. Boat access is limited. And when you do get there, the Atlantic has a way of keeping you humble.

But I’ve come to love that uncertainty. It means that every successful photograph is hard-won—and more importantly, it means that every visit is valuable, even if no photograph results. Because each return deepens my understanding. Each return sharpens my eye. And each return adds another layer to the story I’m trying to tell with my work.

From Iconic to Personal

Over the years, I’ve grown less interested in making iconic images of the Skelligs—photographs that show them in all their cinematic glory—and more interested in making personal ones. Images that carry the quiet presence of time. Images that reward longer looking. Images that feel, to me, like conversations with the land.

Evening Above the Lighthouse

This kind of work doesn’t shout. It doesn’t dazzle on first glance. But it lingers. And when a collector chooses to bring one of these images into their home, I hope that they too will find something new in it each time they walk past it—just as I’ve found something new each time I’ve returned to the islands themselves.

What It Means to Collect a Photograph Like This

When you purchase a photograph of the Skelligs from my collection, you’re not just acquiring an image of a famous place. You’re bringing home a piece of a long and ongoing relationship—a record of years spent watching, listening, returning. It’s an image made not just with a camera, but with time, patience, and deep respect for a landscape that never stops revealing itself.

The Small Skellig

In a world of quick captures and surface impressions, this kind of work is becoming rare. But I believe it’s what gives a photograph its staying power—what makes it worthy of living with, not just looking at.

And I’ll keep returning. Because the Skelligs, in their silence and storm, still have more to show me. And I still have more to see.

Islands on the Edge of the World

If you're interested to learn more about my journey with the Skelligs, consider a copy of my book - the product of over ten years spent returning to these dramatic and wonderful islands.