March; a trip to mainland that looked like the islands, trees shrouded in mist, paper leaves clinging to bare branches, moss dripping in silent forests like streamers after the party.
An ancient valley, standing stones and chambered cairns and circles carved in stones by busy hands 5000 years dead.
Forts long gone, the footsteps of Kings, dusty light blanketing dormant fields.
Hillsides mirrored in frozen water, colours siding into colours, the world doubled over upon itself, the sky beckoning below our feet.
A perfect farm, a serendipitous stay, a dog to befriend and a phone call telling us yes, the boat would be ours.
Dreams realised, a search ended, imagination sparked, a story begun.