At Little Loch Broom, the clouds quite literally roll in to let the light fall in stripes over the iron hills, so ancient and half-asleep they don’t even notice any more.

At Gairloch, the bracken has died but not before showing its true colour of rust.
The bare rocks that protrude slate grey are the worn down teeth of primordial giants, megaliths that did battle through the Scotch mists of time.

At the Assynt, the peaks have given in to solitude. When the sun occasions to shine on them, they espy one another from afar. They talk in ancient riddles across the glen but of what we still haven’t deciphered.

The leaf that refuses to yield long after the rain has turned to snow.