Mist over Watermillock, Ullswater
images from 23rd September 2022
24th February 2026
Hello
There are mornings that don’t shout for attention. They don’t arrive in blazing colour or theatrical skies. They just quietly unfold — and if you’re there, and still enough, you get to witness them.
The 23rd of September 2022 was one of those mornings.
I was at Watermillock, looking out across Ullswater towards Hallin Fell. It was gloriously sunny, but the lake was completely motionless. Not a breath of air. Not the faintest disturbance on the surface. The kind of stillness that feels almost sacred, as if the landscape has paused before the day properly begins.
There used to be an old wooden jetty there. And the stone-shingled lake edge where you could stand and feel properly grounded. Both are gone now. You can’t quite place yourself in the same way anymore. That small, physical connection to the water has shifted. Which makes these photographs feel even more precious to me — they hold something that no longer exists.
This is a series of ten images. All in black and white.
That morning wasn’t about colour. It was about form, light and movement. It was about contrast — the solid, unmoving weight of Hallin Fell against the fluid, wandering mist.
At first, the mist lingered low in the valley behind the fell. It hovered there as though undecided, thin and hesitant. I assumed it would simply lift and vanish as the sun strengthened. That’s usually how it goes. A brief appearance, then gone.
But instead, it began to travel.
Slowly at first, almost imperceptibly. Then with intention.
It didn’t rise vertically. It didn’t dissolve. It slid sideways, tracing the contours of Hallin Fell like a pale ribbon. Like a snake slithering through the folds of the land. It emphasised every curve, every hollow. The fell didn’t lose definition — it gained it.
In black and white, the movement became even more pronounced. Without colour to soften the scene, the tones carried everything. The deep greys of the fell, the luminous whites of the mist, the glassy mid-tones of the lake holding the whole composition steady.
Below — absolute calm.
Above — quiet motion.
Above — quiet motion.
That contrast is what held me there.
Each frame in the series is slightly different. Not because I moved much — there wasn’t any need to — but because the landscape kept shifting. The mist stretched, curled, thinned, gathered again. For a few moments it would hug a ridge and glow softly in the sunlight. Then it would slide onward, reshaping the fell entirely.
It felt alive.
There’s something about photographing movement within stillness that slows you down. I wasn’t chasing light or scrambling to adjust for drama. The drama was subtle, unfolding at its own pace. I just had to pay attention.
You don’t get many mornings like this. Late September can be generous, but rarely this composed. Rarely this quiet.
By mid-morning the mist thinned to nothing. Hallin Fell returned to its familiar solidity. Ullswater remained beautiful, of course, but the moment had passed. The atmosphere that animated the scene retreated as quietly as it arrived.
And now the jetty is gone. The shingle edge has changed. The vantage point isn’t quite the same.
Which is perhaps why this series matters to me more than I realised at the time. It captures not just the marvellous movement of mist, but a version of the shoreline that no longer exists. A morning that can’t be repeated in quite the same way.
Ten frames.
One still lake.
A fell breathing mist across its back.
One still lake.
A fell breathing mist across its back.
Quiet. Fleeting. Unrepeatable.
Below is the full black and white series — ten frames from a morning that won’t come again.
Joy.
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