The path winds its way between sedge grass, the first blooms of heather. A scent of all things new that Summer brings, fills the air. We pause by a few lines borrowed from a famous poem by Norman MacCaig, engraved in granite. The large question mark enables us to ask his questions once more. Who owns this landscape?Who owns our beautiful planet? In our view too, it can only be master-less. For the short time that we’re here, we immerse ourselves in its beauty. We do our best to care for what we find, leaving nothing but our footprints, and our gratitude behind.
august moon the words of our ancestors still feel true
Loch Eadar dha Bheinn winks at us from his mountain. Clar Loch Mor, Loch Dhonnachaidh and Clar Loch Beag make us wonder, whether we’ve met each other once before. I wish we could stay, get to know them better. Their personalities, their taste in fish.
crystal waters the kindness in their names a gaelic song
The grass-covered roof of the Rock Room blends in with the ferns and heather of the hillside. Inside are display boards in English and Gaelic, explaining how parts of the earth’s crust have travelled long distances. The older mylonites on display at Knockan Crag had been forced up against and over the later Cambrian layer.
There’s a sculpture of two geologists, Ben Peach and John Horne, to celebrate these findings. Today the grass is growing around Horne’s feet, some of the seeds tickle his knees. The sun feels extra warm after the morning’s showers.
deep time so many treasures breathing the same air
The stones are dripping with seaweed, marvellous and green between sand and silt, where the water has been. Clambering down these rocks I wonder where their stories began. Like all the other stories floating around us and within us. From wolf to hound. From ancestors whose language I cannot speak, even though it sounds familiar.
waves echo through the open window a seagull’s song