6th February 2008
With heavy rain alternating with longer pauses from rain, insubstantial mist hovers over forestry & woodland alike. It rolls over rockfaces & slowly topples downhill. It’s hard not to see Chinese landscape scrolls in this as I walk along: pines, rock, water & mist unfolding; now obscured by brief abundant showers, here clearing to reveal a mossy worty oak. The ropes & tresses of the hills’ overburdens of water from a distance make their sinuous white way to the loch; up close, they fall sheer & bounce fiercely from boulder to outcrop in torrents & surges that would wash stags away.
The hinds of the bog pick their usual way west, with perhaps a little more elegant high stepping than usual; the wet ground, no doubt. Their three followers seem to have deserted them; maybe they were passing through, looking for their own territory.
Apart from the deer, there’s only a grey crow, on the road verge, moving with that odd sort of sidle strut that suggests stilt walking. Overhead, now the rain’s off for a while, just two ravens. They’re very low, negotiating the coast down on cool air, close enough for whiffling wing sounds to be heard. Their muted, offhand, gamelan calls to each other fold me in to another temporality. I pause; the birds hang in sky; then it’s movement again.
With heavy rain alternating with longer pauses from rain, insubstantial mist hovers over forestry & woodland alike. It rolls over rockfaces & slowly topples downhill. It’s hard not to see Chinese landscape scrolls in this as I walk along: pines, rock, water & mist unfolding; now obscured by brief abundant showers, here clearing to reveal a mossy worty oak. The ropes & tresses of the hills’ overburdens of water from a distance make their sinuous white way to the loch; up close, they fall sheer & bounce fiercely from boulder to outcrop in torrents & surges that would wash stags away.
The hinds of the bog pick their usual way west, with perhaps a little more elegant high stepping than usual; the wet ground, no doubt. Their three followers seem to have deserted them; maybe they were passing through, looking for their own territory.
Apart from the deer, there’s only a grey crow, on the road verge, moving with that odd sort of sidle strut that suggests stilt walking. Overhead, now the rain’s off for a while, just two ravens. They’re very low, negotiating the coast down on cool air, close enough for whiffling wing sounds to be heard. Their muted, offhand, gamelan calls to each other fold me in to another temporality. I pause; the birds hang in sky; then it’s movement again.
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