Cullins, Skye, Hebrides, Scotland
The second one asked after the hanging hind and up the highest mountain.
So, we come, to lights and lists, listing, lying in the hills, heaving heavily. Mist spider cloud holding still the summits, snow less around hidden valleys and buttressed cathedrals. Oppressive stillness plucked like a taut string bird song with less and even less reverberation. Sound dying in the soft air still or a soft day as they say here across the short sea.
A landscape laundry day with wet heat and damp dark sheltered souls. A high horizon much above hair dripping and lowering down. Flowing and running like grey curtains closing on an empty stage with set but unresolved murders. Brush strokes of washed bleached water colour, stinking of dead pan peat and the feel of here be dragons. Bubbles of gas bursting from the hag wet lies, marshy and slyly whispering get off my mountain.
A stag of hanging moss antler roaring and whistling off in the depths of dark. A web of diadem jewel hanging from every stag moss tree and miniature garden mountain massif.
A stag snagged harem hind hanging like a clear deer suicide from the lower branches of this stunted growth brought in by winter floods. A cage of hooded pecked ribbed rib swinging wind sculpture that clacks with the fighting ravens and conversations of this and that Corvidae.
The lower valley fairy woodland of the early people greening with moss and book leafed shamrock. The combed yellow grassed bewigged tops of bottomless pits. To the land of the Sidhe for a year and a day married to the fleeting folk.
Up the mountain horseshoe of ridge back summits and huge concrete crosses and even larger shrine. Up the hydro road of persistent prejudice to the crowd on the highest in the range, and in the country at Easter walks. All walking up, the faithful on knee barefoot the easy way, the Devils stair fallen from the hags glen to provide your sainted scattered worship past the oldest Ogham stones. Corbett and Monroe, ridge and high mist filled tarn with ruin and sheep shit pen.
Rills and runnels, rock and tarn, cwm and cloudy crag. Gasping cold brown trout tanned water with dipping Dipper sentries fast flying under. Hiding and rolling on a rocking rock, slipping damp backside on green headed turf.
Soda bread and cheese seaweed eating too much or too little. Save some for later. Lost breathing to several thousand steps just to get to that little strange shaped rock. Cold sweat backed up against clammy skinned squelching feet. Cone of piled rock points for geology and geography. Peopled with faded photographs and canned blown wrappers even this high.
One knee and photographs asking will you do me the honourable, little did we know, justice? Seasoned with a round of inappropriate clear air applause from excited Easter pleasure pilgrims. Anything you said and meant, just get up and get it over with. Many ah’s and oh’s ringing in the clear air above the below floor like clouds. Bless you all and back down for the black brown at Molly’s in the valley. Never lasts, ever, and you have to wait for the drink to settle.