The suggestion of spring sunshine finds this little nook just as I find it.
The greens and browns of Scotland’s highland moss, heather and bracken, cover the rising slopes all around me.
Soggy underfoot by the bank: suck and squelch.
Rushing water, impatient, insistent, ice-cold, streaming downhill and around the bend, out of sight.
Submerged as I am under the sound of water, the surge of the stream envelops my senses, the din drowns out everything beyond the den.
Sweet blessed relief.
Mind quietens down, belly relaxes, lungs let go a long sigh.
On my side, lichen limbs reach over the gap, intrigued by the other bank.
Big boulder stays put, stubbornly parting the burn’s flow, causing consternation, froth and splash.
But the river finds its way around the sulking stone easily enough, laughing at the silly brute as it slides past and heads downstream.
This burn pours in from famous Loch Ness, coming to me from Allt Doe1, before branching and heading down to Loch Tarff: a more low-key resting place.
A sudden assault from behind.
Two Typhoon fighters fly low over the crags, cutting, stabbing and slashing the sky, the sound of their violence following behind them.
I am woken from my reverie.
The trance is broken.
The default for 'burn, stream' in Scottish Gaelic is allt. Burns with notable waterfalls often carry both elements in their names.