I wake as the breath of the Loch rises from the valley. Does it get more tranquil than this. The young people from The Isle of Skye and Ullapool are fast asleep in the main house and I walk from the cottage upon the path through the grass towards its grand kitchen door. It is quiet enough to hear birds wings.
I see three shivvering dots on the landscape and a distant screaming from the clouds, fills the entire sky. The dots shoot closer, the screaming gets louder and engulfs the valley bouncing from mountain to mountain from transonic to supersonic splitting the
sky crashing through the sound barrier, near bursting my eardrums and solidifying my insides
The locals know when there’s war because these torando’s fly even closer to the ground than permitted. It causes pregnant Ewes to give birth to still born lambs. There’s
something allegorical about that, about the wars many miles away and the lambs dying here.