Honey Davis-Wilkinson takes a trip to the Scottish Highlands, accompanied by her trusty 35mm film camera.

I was planning a trip to the northwest of Scotland, close to the part of the Highlands where I’d grown up. I’d travel on public transport to locations from three favourite films. First stop: the lonely rail station at Corrour, as featured in Trainspotting – the highest mainline station in the United Kingdom, 410 metres above sea level. Then on to Morar, where Local Hero is partly filmed, on Camusdarach Beach. Finally, the Isle of Mull, star location in Powell and Pressburger’s 1945 filmic wonder I Know Where I’m Going!

I’d get people to take part in my photo project, reenacting scenes from the movies, which I’d shoot on 35mm film. Who wouldn’t want to stand on the platform at Corrour with a striped plastic bag full of cans of Special Brew, before swigging from a morning bottle of vodka? Who could resist walking down Camusdarach Beach wearing a business suit and carrying a briefcase, like the American oil executives in Local Hero? Above all, who could possibly shun dressing in vintage rainwear to act out the unexpected passion between Wendy Hiller and Roger Livesey in I Know Where I’m Going!?

Taking a direct train from Glasgow Queen Street to Corrour, I retraced Mark, Spud, Sick Boy and Tommy’s journey. But, on arrival, rather than heading into the hills, I sought out my bunkbed for the night. The hostel at Loch Ossian is a mile walk from the train station and accessible only by bike, foot or maybe horseback. It’s generally seen as the most remote hostel in Scotland and is also home to the historic logbook from the Run Around Loch Ossian Challenge. This involves running the 7.5-mile circuit of the loch in less than an hour. On arrival I learned of a pleasing coincidence. My night at the hostel coincided with the return of the record holder, Ian Murphy, who completed the circuit in 38 minutes and 19 seconds in August 1995. Ian was returning to Loch Ossian with friend and fellow competitor Pat Bonner, to celebrate the 30-year anniversary of this impressive feat.

Ian and Pat spent the night telling stories to a crowd of hostellers. Pat played the fiddle. I particularly liked learning about Windswept, the indoor-friendly deer who used to spend time at the hostel. But I couldn’t persuade Ian and Pat or anyone else to help me replicate scenes from Trainspotting the next day. In the afternoon, I walked back to Corrour station. I had the striped plastic bag and the Special Brew but not a single soul was waiting for the 15:24 service to Morar. I decided to give up on the idea of persuading strangers to take part in a DIY performance art piece.

In Morar, I walked for miles along the Silver Sands, swam in kelp forests and dined on a hard-boiled egg liberated from my B&B, together with my snack leftovers from the previous day. I passed a tour operator on the beach. He was wearing a suit and would have been perfect for a Local Hero reenactment. But I decided to let him to enjoy his tea break in peace.

My onward travel from the request-stop rail station at Morar was affected by a tragedy in the area. I learned that the railway staff were too upset to operate the train that afternoon. It felt strange to hear of this sad event in this beautiful place, but it also felt like the train driver and his workmates had their priorities right. I went into Race Around The World mode to get to my next destination, the port of Oban.

In the morning I discovered all the ferries from Oban to Mull were cancelled until the next day because of bad weather. The ferries are operated by Caledonian MacBrayne and at the ferry terminal I got talking to an older lady. We chatted about a genius advertising slogan I knew from my childhood: “I’m having a Caledonian MacBrayne-wave!” The lady smiled as she whispered in my ear: “More like Caledonian MacBrayne-less!” But the extra day in Oban was full of silver linings. I had time to visit landmarks that feature in Alan Warner’s novels, such as McCaig’s Tower on Battery Hill. I also met some cool people, particularly 11-year-old Arthur from Mondsee in Austria, a place name that means “moon lake”. Arthur was wearing a kilt and a tartan trilby. He told me he loves Scotland because of the untouched nature, the friendly people, the sheep and because wherever you go you will find blackberries.

The next day I travelled on a magical sunrise ferry to Mull. On arrival, an early morning walk took me from the Craignure ferry port to Duart Castle, which appears as Castle of Sorne in I Know Where I’m Going! As I neared the castle I came upon a Land Rover. The engine was on. Supplies were laid out on the grass. And something was being heated on a camping stove. A very tall, very youthful-looking young man appeared, dressed in a tweed jacket and flat cap. He posed for me in front of the Land Rover, didn’t say a word, and then packed up and drove off. A minute later, a woman called Charmaine climbed out of a camper van, a vision in tartan with flawless hair and make-up. She told me she was from the Isle of Wight and was working at the castle. The camper van was her home for the summer. When I later got back my film scans I was glad to see these two encounters hadn’t been a dream.

Memorable meetings kept on coming. These included an unlikely birdwatching duo I met while hitchhiking on Mull – sixtysomething John from Indiana in America and fortysomething punk rocker Russ from Preston. They gave me a lift from the wildlife hide at Fishnish to Loch na Keal and then lent me some binoculars so I could get a good look at a golden eagle soaring overhead. We were joined by an off-the-clock tour guide who pointed out some top secret white-tailed eagle nesting spots. Later on I got chatting to pre-teen, phone-free harbour boys Kalen, Romy and Bob who were jumping into the Sound of Mull and encouraged me to do the same. There was also Derek and his dogs and his pals. They spend their time sailing around the world, couriering boats back to their owners. And they were all really happy having their photo taken, no reenactments, just as themselves.

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Honey Davis-Wilkinson is a photographer. You can follow her on Instagram here.