It’s a bright day. I make sure that the cap of my flask is tightly threaded, and snug it in against the other contents of my rucksack. Outside the kitchen window, two male Reed Buntings are rummaging about in the
Beacon
Remembering the Whale
I reach out and give it another push. It spins idly, in slow rotations on the desk. Dentine against toughened plastic makes an empty, clinical sound. The enamel coated tip is whiter. Sharper. The business end (a thickly curved point)
The Song It Sings
Paradoxically, Ben Hynish was the last of our three hills to pique my interest. The presence of the Golf Ball radar station somehow marked it as a place of activity. A place with a road. A place of people. Looking
Steel Birds
Tiree is an island of many moods. On some days, the flaxen light and tender fluting of swans drip like mead over a patchwork of croft fields. At other times, the wind drives white horses high onto the beaches. For