From the warmth of the African plains, hot dust underfoot and bright sun overhead, to the misty, rain soaked hills of Scotland. I started first in the seaside town of Oban, seagulls screeching overhead as a grey and hostile sea battered in from the West. From there, a short journey to a private estate on a distant island, where for several days my Scottish safari trod over sodden clods to climb munroes and descend into glens, all in search of red deer. The bellow of a stag in rut echoed along the contours of the hill, and a short glass away, hinds glanced up from their quiet grazing. The rain lashed horizontal, occasionally parting to reveal turquoise skies with bright shafts of sunlight over foaming grey seas, illuminating clumps of purple heather, fragile yet fiercely strong in this harsh environment. Jodphurs switched for tweed, the shimmer of a mirage for mist, and the flatline of an African horizon for the jagged peaks of the mountain.