Photography’s always been about grabbing a moment and pinning it down, a frozen slice of time that whispers a story or whisks us somewhere we might never tread ourselves. Back in the mid-19th century, though, it turned into something more: a passport to the world’s edges. Travel, expedition, and tourism photography kicked off as a way to document the unknown, morphing over decades into an art that’s shaped how we see everything from Aberdeen’s granite glow to the farthest flung corners. From Victorian explorers lugging bulky gear to today’s Instagram wanderers, this genre’s journey is a wild ride through tech, culture, and curiosity.

It all started taking shape in the 1850s, when processes like the daguerreotype and calotype had cracked photography open beyond labs and studios. Wet plate collodion came along, and suddenly, adventurers could haul their kit to distant lands. These early snappers weren’t just chasing pretty pictures, there was heft behind it. Colonial ambitions, scientific quests, even a dash of propaganda steered what they pointed their lenses at. Take Francis Frith, who set off in 1856 to photograph the Holy Land. His stark, monumental shots of biblical landscapes hit Victorian audiences right in their spiritual sweet spot, while Maxime Du Camp’s prints of Egypt’s pyramids and ruins fed Europe’s hunger for the “exotic” East. These weren’t mere postcards, they carried weight, legitimising imperial dreams and framing foreign places through a Western gaze.

This was the era of expedition photography, tied tight to exploration’s golden age. The world felt smaller as explorers, archaeologists, and geographers dragged cameras into the wild. Frith and Du Camp weren’t alone, across the pond, Carleton Watkins and Timothy O’Sullivan roamed the American West with survey teams, capturing vast landscapes that didn’t just map the land but helped spark the national park system. Closer to home, Scotland’s own adventurers were in on it too. Think of the Arctic, where William Bradford stuffed photographers onto his 1860s whaling ships, nabbing some of the earliest icy vistas. Frostbite was as big a threat as light-ruined plates, but they brought back images that made the cold feel alive. It was gritty, determined stuff, photography as proof and persuasion, not just prettiness.

By the late 19th century, things shifted gears. The Industrial Revolution rolled out railways and steamships, and a growing middle class started itching to roam. Tourism wasn’t just for toffs anymore, it was opening up, and photography tagged along for the ride. The Kodak box camera hit in the 1880s, light and simple, with George Eastman’s “You press the button, we do the rest” promise turning every traveller into a snapper. The Grand Tour, once an elite jaunt through Italy, Greece, and France, became a blueprint for this new wave. People wanted souvenirs, status symbols, proof they’d been somewhere. Pre-made prints and stereographs (those 3D-viewer double shots) flew off shelves, letting armchair explorers “visit” from their parlours.

Scotland played its part here too. Samuel Bourne, a star of this shift, didn’t stick to Europe, he hauled his gear to India, climbing the Himalayas for jaw-dropping shots of peaks and temples. His work mixed picturesque beauty with a sense of untouched wonder, a nod to places like the Cairngorms or Glen Coe that Scots knew well but craved in far-off form. Back in Aberdeen, you can imagine locals snapping up stereographs of Rome or Athens, dreaming of their own granite city’s place in the wider world. The Alps were another hotspot, pioneers like Bourne showed how mountains could captivate, a thrill not lost on anyone who’s trekked Scotland’s rugged north.

Then came cultural tourism, where photography met ethnography. John Thomson, a Scot from Edinburgh, took this to heart in the 1860s and 70s, roaming East Asia with a lens that caught more than just scenery. His shots of Chinese streets and Cambodian villages, later published in Illustrations of China and Its People, had a rare dignity, steering clear of the caricatures that plagued colonial snaps. But it wasn’t all rosy. Travel photography could flatten cultures into spectacles, raising ethical questions that echo today. Were these real encounters or curated shows? Thomson’s nuance was a bright spot, but the medium’s contradictions were loud, preserving traditions in one frame, stereotyping them in the next.

The 20th century flipped the script again. Portable cameras like the Leica in the 1920s brought spontaneity, and colour film added a vivid kick. Air travel shrank the globe further, and photography went from niche to norm. Ansel Adams, though rooted in Yosemite’s wilds, showed how natural beauty could be art, not just record, his 1930s and 40s landscapes inspired wanderers everywhere, maybe even nudging Scots toward their own Munros. National Geographic jumped in too, blending expedition grit with glossy storytelling. From Herbert Ponting’s Antarctic chills in the 1910s to Frank Hurley’s Shackleton survival shots, their pages made the world feel close, Aberdeen readers flipping through could almost taste the ice.

Photojournalism took off, Margaret Bourke-White and Steve McCurry became icons, balancing raw reportage with romantic wanderlust. McCurry’s Afghan Girl in 1984 hit like a thunderbolt, a modern echo of Thomson’s portraits but with colour that burned into memory. Meanwhile, Scotland’s own Martin Chambi was at it in Peru, shooting Andean life in the 1920s and 30s with a pride that flipped the script on Western gawping. Travel photography was splitting, still adventurous, but now personal too, as roll film and Kodak’s ease let everyday folk join in.

By the mid-20th century, air travel and compact cameras, like point-and-shoots made it anyone’s game. The 1960s and 70s saw colour take over, with Life and Time dishing out photo essays that turned trips into tales. Glossy guidebooks popped up, and stock photography standardised the game, landmarks, beaches, cultures, all packaged neat. In Aberdeen, you’d see folk snapping the granite streets or heading north to the Highlands, echoing that global shift. But it was the digital age that blew the doors off. Smartphones and Instagram flipped photography into overdrive, suddenly, anyone could shoot, share, and rack up likes from Union Street to Ullapool.

Today, it’s a free-for-all. Pros like Sebastião Salgado wrestle with big issues, environment, society, while hobbyists flock to workshops, chasing their own slice of the world. In Scotland, that might mean framing Aberdeen’s rugged coast or the Hebrides’ wild beauty, sharing it instantly with a global crowd. But the flood of images brings baggage, authenticity’s shaky, over-tourism’s real, and ethics linger from Thomson’s day. Are we connecting or just gawking? Still, at its core, travel photography hasn’t budged: it’s about bridging “here” and “there,” inviting us to step into someone else’s shoes, feel their wonder, maybe even spark our own.

From glass plates in the 1850s to instant uploads now, this craft’s been a lifeline, first for explorers proving a point, then for tourists chasing memories. Scotland’s in that story, Thomson’s lens, Bourne’s peaks, even local snaps of Aberdeen’s kirkyards or harbours echo the same pull. It’s evolved from science to souvenir to art, but the heart’s the same: capturing the world’s beauty, diversity, and mystery, one frame at a time.

Regards

Alex