The edge of the wild

After an hour of ascent we came to the edge of human interference.
Beyond was rough heathland up to Crags and cliff, stiff with the territorial energetic roaring of stags in rut. We stayed close to the fence and traversed the mountainside in case the stags decided to charge.
They were annoyed by our presence, tearing across the mountainside, each hoof-strike exploding into mist.

Karmic projection overkill

Getting back down south, driving into heavier traffic, getting back to work with all of the noise, mostly pointless. It brought me down with a bump and made me think about how quiet it is in Scotland.
After our climb up the hills at the back of the cottage, I sat a while reading my book, 'At the Loch of the green corrie'. It is an excellent tale of friendship, poetry and finding ones own ease and place on the Earth.
I was reading away, but getting mythered by the chickens hassling me for food or affection and I wished they would just nob off!

That night a young Pine marten got in and amongst killing four of them.

Today at work, my colleague, joined me on the same job and whacked on radio two. He is a nice bloke who has been at the same workplace for far too long and part of his Stockholm syndrome is soothed by the same, bland inane loops favoured by, Ken Bruce , Steve Wright and the like.
 I briefly seethed some bitter karmic thoughts, but I hope he manages to not get mauled by any Mustelids this weekend, he doesn't deserve that

How the west was won

Just back from a trip up north, to the Scottish part of my country.
We stayed in Glen Orchy and it was sublime. On Sunday we drove east for three hours, taking the Corran ferry to the Ardnamurchan peninsular and the lighthouse at its western tip, the farthest westerly point on the British mainland. A sunny and rainbow illuminated schlep, with about thirty nine blind summits.
Here is a shot of the old foghorn.