Daffodils flowering in the verge. A thrush sings for me from a hawthorn, it would fill anyone’s heart. The sky is full of birdsong this morning and a woodpecker thrums in the wood. I meet a walker and we stop for a chat, share stories of ourselves. I am told to pop in any time I am passing. Swans on the loch, a ploughed field. The softest blue sky and a warm sun.
In the mountain.
Rock, water, fissure.
North Face Buachaillle.
Snow water trickles, pools, slips down in search of more level ground. Two climbers in red jackets belay, traverse, make a pitch for the summit. A pair of golden eagles circle still higher, watch the movements below.
North face Buachaille.
A damp mist shutters the gap between the hills, stamping down hard against the sodden bog. Whole cliffs of rock disappear, a simple sleight of hand. Lost. Into the silence a pithy, pinched wind comes, trembling the heather, breathing sun across the western flank pulling the hill back from the brink.