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Big Sands

The grains were small as the storm had thrown them – over – and I was waiting for the weather and strong legs to return me to a mountainversion of myself that the years had carried elsewhere. Can you hear the rustling of grasses and the cries of crooked-angled gulls as they unbecome the wind and the individual storms in-fighting for their portion of morning? This is a not a day for the beach but of the seashore. The sand makes gritted seaweed from my hair as an elongated snail traverses machair to a predetermined nowhere. Wagtails line the roof of a boarded hut while a kite spears the clouds like an inverse sunbeam; a tern nibbles the edges of some barbecued wood and the tumbled laundry of a down-day is crafting the motions of a ‘pound for fourteen minutes’ of waves. This is a place of uncalled-for space and by the grace of the big sky, and the serrated under-silhouette of Skye, an invitation to the sea unfolds to come and dine with mountain.


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