Gunshot sky rumbles over the peatland. An island of bog surrounded by birch and scots pine, a remnant of what was once. Bits of Rannoch Moor here in miniature if you get down at its level and peer closely- sundew, bog asphodel, bog cotton. It survives, marooned, raised up around oceans of barley lapping on its shore. It is only a handful of miles as the crow flies to my house on the shore, where peat kinks away to loam and crumbles into the sea.