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.