The death of a photographic icon. Some folk take a hardline approach to this oft photographed location. Personally I mourn it's sad demise a casualty of the Spring gales where the canopy of this wee island birch caught the prevailing winds as surely as the spinnacher of a racing dinghy and it's inevitable capsize. This is my current favourite shot of the tree at last wrenched from my files. It was minus 22 degrees celcius on that particular morning I started off alone and was joined within half an hour by five or six photographers, but to be honest this was my favourite moment and the most intense glow. Alas it had gone by the time the others arrived.

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