We spend our time in the hills gazing across huge vistas, wondering at the enormity of the hills around us, staring across wide valleys or endless glens. Yet, to me, it is often the small things that tell the story of these places.

 

A fragment of pottery that once was whole and placed, gleaming and full of food, on the table by a housewife before an honoured guest. A broken piece of machinery, once shining and full of power and speed, sits rusted, cold and still on a window ledge. Its purpose long forgotten.

 

A fragment of weaving made by a child, the skull of an animal, a piece of stone, all sit together unmolested by time in this silent place. Here windows look out on to the loch and watch endless sunrises arrive in the still dawn to fade each night into blackness.

Take the time to be still, to look at the small things and listen to the tales they tell. Feel the coarse grained stone, the weather worn paint, place your hand where countless others touched and, moving on, carried with them the texture of this place. Stand for moment, let the sense of this place seep into you. When you move on, as all must, remember this place and, perhaps by chance, it will remember you.