Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Windy Hill

Yesterday evening, I returned to Windy Hill. Having thrown a sandwich and a bottle of Glencoe stout into a pack, I climbed the hill to watch the sunset.

Despite the name, all four elements are met in this place, in a combative equilibrium - cohesive yet opposed. The land - in black, greens and browns - meanders into shades of purple and grey as the earth erupts skyward to the north. Overhead, clouds drifting so low to be within human grasp form a broad flat base, hovering over the mountains in defiance of their rugged form. To the east, Glasgow; its monochromatic shimmer a strange oasis within the continuous spectrum of the numinous landscape. To the west, just over the hilltops, the sun's death in the perpetual presence of the unseen sea.

The grass was soft and cool beneath me. I sat, with a flask, the wind to my back, my eyes lingering over the foreboding mass of Ben Lomond and the jagged peaks of the Arrochar Alps, and vowed to return to this spot as often as I physically can. Never has a place so taken my heart.