ISLE OF SKYE, SCOTLAND
Imagine a place where the ground is so lush, so fertile, that with each step,
the world bounces to life... springing forth with a near-prehistoric energy.
A brook chases the motorway, flanking like a puppy panting with joy. Bubble. Froth. Twist. Tumble over the rocks below.
With each rapid, the day is washed away.
The bog gives way to forest. Creaking, overgrown, and time-worn. Striking Birch trees play Red Rover as the road winds through. Criss-cross.
The wind begins to shiver.
The path narrows, the sun blocked by branches intertwined. Forest gives way to mountains. Then wide-open spans of plateaus and russet fields, burned by the clay they envelope.
It’s forest again. Then fields.
And the sky opens. Rain begins to fall. Like a cartoon, it follows you off the page. Escape the mountain and the light shines through, illuminating the bogs around you.
Back to golden fields and centuries of thistle, swaying to the tune of the wind.