… and the Isle unfolds outside our car windows. The land is green and the sky is grey, dotted by the white of sheep, of old country homes, of sea-gulls sailing, of boats anchored to a choppy harbour. We walk fields to crystal pools and drive through double rainbows. We hike to abandoned castles and slanted mountains. We watch as snow-drifts approach us from across the valley, like winds of sorcery.
The coastal farmland, a wandering herd of Highland red deer, a bowl of oranges in a morning hotel room, the rain-streaked windows of everything: this place seems to acknowledge the tranquil longing inside us, the pain that is not destructive, but honest, the dreams we are trying to nurture in the secret corners of our being.
In all these places and all these moments, every little “here & now” twinkles, and our fingers learn to grasp the thread, to recognize the dots of our own, personal story...