St Fittick’s Church is the kind of place that lingers in the background of your mind, a half-forgotten relic standing quiet in a field in Torry near the golf course and new harbour, caught between the past and the slow creep of Aberdeen’s industrial sprawl. It’s been there for centuries, weathered by time, its stone walls battered by the wind that rolls in from the North Sea. I’ve passed it more times than I can count, used to be fourteen times a week heading to work for nearly nine years, my mind elsewhere, never really stopping to give it the attention it deserved. But this time was different. Camera in hand, I set out with the sole purpose of capturing it, not just the ruins, but the feeling of the place, the weight of history in the worn gravestones, the texture of lichen creeping over stone, the quiet presence of something older than any of us.

I went in blind, no research, no plan, just an open mind and an eye for detail. I wandered, letting instinct lead me, framing shots as I went. The bellcote, still standing proud despite the years. The tangle of gravestones, some leaning, others buried deep in the grass, their inscriptions eroded by time. The shadows stretching across the uneven ground as the late afternoon light caught the edges of the ruins. I left feeling satisfied, convinced I had done the place justice.

Then I got home, started reading up on the history, and realised how much I’d missed. No shot of the old watchhouse, a key piece of the church’s story. No close-up of the “Memento Mori” gravestone, carved with a skull and hourglass, a detail that stings even more considering I just got that exact motif tattooed on my hand last week. It was a lesson in the dangers of assumption, a reminder that sometimes, a place deserves more than just instinct. It needs preparation, research, a second visit.

And so, I’ll be going back. But this time, I’ll know exactly what I’m looking for.

St Fittick’s isn’t just old; it’s ancient. The name itself is wrapped in legend. One story claims St Fittick was an Irish monk thrown overboard by sailors, only to wash up on the shores of Nigg Bay, where he founded a place of worship. Another theory suggests the name got tangled somewhere in history, possibly confused with St Fiacre or St Fotin. Whatever the truth, there’s evidence of a church here dating back to at least the 12th century, when it fell under the control of Arbroath Abbey. In 1242, Bishop David de Bernham officially consecrated it, marking its place in the religious landscape of medieval Scotland. Some of those earliest stones might still be in the ruins today, though most of what stays comes from the 1600s and 1700s, the bellcote itself dated 1704.

For centuries, St Fittick’s served the people of Torry, a steadfast presence through the rise and fall of kings, wars, and industrial expansion. But by 1829, it had outlived its practical use. The growing population needed something larger, something more accessible. The church was abandoned, left to the mercy of the elements, its congregation moving on. Over time, the land around it changed, industry creeping ever closer, but the church remained, a stubborn reminder of the past.

The graveyard is a story in itself, each headstone a fragment of a life long gone. Some date back to the 1600s, their inscriptions fading but their symbols still clear. Skulls, crossed bones, hourglasses, blunt reminders that time waits for no one. That’s what “Memento Mori” means: remember you will die. A warning, a truth, a philosophy. It’s a phrase that resonates more with me now than ever, not just because I’ve embraced Stoicism, but because I literally wear it on my skin. The tattoo on my right hand, skull and hourglass feels like a personal echo of the graveyard’s message. And yet, despite that connection, I missed the most famous example of it at St Fittick’s. The gravestone that carries that warning, carved in stone for centuries, went unnoticed by me. That stings. It’s not just about getting the shot; it’s about recognising the moment, the connection between past and present, the way places and stories speak to us if we’re paying attention.

Then there’s the watchhouse, another key detail I overlooked. In the 19th century, fresh graves weren’t always safe. “Resurrection men”, body snatchers, prowled the graveyards, digging up newly buried corpses to sell to medical schools. St Fittick’s had its own brush with them in 1808, when a group of anatomy students stole the body of Mrs Janet Spark, a 90-year-old pensioner, just days after she was laid to rest. Their plan fell apart when they left a spade behind, with one of their names carved into it, a fatal mistake that led to one of them fleeing the country. The crime shook the community, and like many other graveyards of the time, a watchhouse was built to deter future thieves. I walked right past it, never realising what it was. Another reason to return.

This whole experience has made me rethink the way I approach photography. Lately, I’ve been struggling to “see” properly, to find the extraordinary in the mundane, to capture images that feel like something more than just snapshots. St Fittick’s has made me realise that seeing isn’t just about what’s in front of you, it’s about understanding, about knowing the story before you press the shutter. The best images don’t just happen by accident. They come from a place of knowledge and intent.

So, when I go back, it won’t just be with my Nikon D5300. I’ll be taking a film camera as well, adding another layer to the process. There’s something about film that forces you to slow down, to be deliberate. You don’t have unlimited shots. Every frame counts. And for a place like St Fittick’s, where history lingers in every shadow, that kind of mindful approach feels right.

This time, I’ll make sure to capture the details I missed. The watchhouse, standing guard over the dead. The “Memento Mori” gravestone, carved with a warning that stretches across centuries. The textures of time, the way the light shifts across the ruins, the way the place feels as much as the way it looks.

Some places demand more than one visit. Some places won’t let you walk away until you’ve truly seen them. St Fittick’s is one of them.

Regards

Alex