The Hermitage

[smokingboot]

... Never was a hermitage, of course. Ossian's hall and Ossian's cave are follies built by some Duke of Atholl in the 18th century I think. The first is effectively a viewing platform for this:



I write what I can here to remember it by; the falling of light upon a tree in the forest that made it look singled out, golden, magical. Long shadows cast between bark and rocks in such a way as to evoke a still late afternoon though it wasn't even nine in the morning. A moment of almost total darkness in a woodland of sharp silhouettes, every raindrop and branch outlined as though we were under a bright full moon at midnight. A sense that music was playing somewhere close by, though one couldn't quite hear it. The rushing water, the views of mountains waiting back and forth over farmland, pretty berries marbled white and pink, woods carpeted in colours of tapestry, and around us happy people and very happy dogs. A place, a place!

Did it help? How could it not? Bennet's deadly beige was whisked away as surely as if the Cailleach herself had applied a broom to his nonsense. We were ourselves again, properly laughing, finding the Dunkeld Burger Van, or, to give it its correct name, The Craft Diner (https://www.facebook.com/thecraftdiner.co.uk/). Sounds a bit full of itself maybe? After all no point hiding one's light under a bushel; these are consistently excellent concoctions especially after 8kms tromping in beautiful country.

Then we went home to catch up with some friends in a game of D&D. Later we sorta watched the footie while R cooked us the most excellent roast dinner. After that we settled into the Mexican Grand Prix, worth it just to see Carlos Sainz make his point and Max Verstappen get the slap he's been asking for. When sleep came it was deep and satisfying.

And just like that, my spirit is refreshed.