Last Friday, 3 friends and I walked soggy switchbacks to the Bealach Duibh Leac, dropped our bags and headed south for a Corbett called Bhuide Bheinn; the yellow hill. It was the pre-amble for the South Glen Shiel ridge - about which more another time - but that afternoon was full of changing light, kindly voices and rough ground little frequented and loaded with a sense of itself. Cold winds blew as we strode out across the boundless knolls, heather, slimy terraces, bog and rock, snow showers swept across the lochans and that light went from cold to hot in only seconds. We caught up with each other, and discovered somewhere new. Now here, no where, nothing to it.
We're close to moving away from the city now, somewhere to call our own and look after each other, a lucky luxury of care and love that's easy to bait if you're born under punches, so everything rings with significance - a seabeaten brick on the tideline opposite the base threatening first strikes, shrill election mantras from the death cult authority. Time to go, it chimes in a voice from my twenties, this scene is washed up man. My other half found a hand written list when we were clearing out, a list made on a walking trip 15 years ago. Did you ever do that - make a wish list on holiday? On it, there's something a bit like what we hope we're moving to. I'd forgotten all about that list. Life takes time, and there's so much ground to cover, it's easy to lose sight. But for the land, which helps me remember.