The air pierced through the thick fog of morning. The grass crunched beneath my barefoot as I stepped across the yard. it was mid-morning and the owls were still hooting their raucous calls. It was a long night that had undoubtedly swept into morning with mysterious dreams. Bold dreams of Scottish tartans and distant lochs. My ancestral lands; a mystery of photos and telltale callings of the wind. How much I’d love to be wrapped up in a tartan galloping along the Nesses and lochs of beautiful remote Knoydart or Inverness. Maybe my ancestors sat in thrones at Glasco or Edinburgh.
My love of Scotland and its ancient tales grow green someday I will go there, God willing.
Until then I will keep the home fires burning.
Have faith and persevere my friends!