How can I take it all in–a surfeit of nourishment for anyone, and served in all of nature’s rugged beauty sating the hunger of a famished soul. The splendor of the Scottish Highlands overwhelms at first. They have been witness to a long, often brutal history. How could such magnificence attend this violent history? They stand sentinel and passive witness devoid of any emotion yet at the heart of engendering unbridled emotion as we, the tiniest fleck on an eternal time line fulfill our own life journey.
I am sitting in a very secluded hollow in Glen Etive–adjacent to a more famous cousin, Glen Coe. It is a 5-1/2 mile trek down a single-track path, euphemistically called a road–actually a precipitous maze where the Bracken Fern hits both sides of the car. . .if you drive absolutely in the middle of the path! Parked in a tiny lay-by, the only sounds I can hear meld together in a cosmic chorus of assurance and peace: the rushing of a nearby waterfall, its waters brown, rich with the peat that makes up the only topsoil in these rocky escarpments; the call of many different birds, no doubt commenting to each other about the glory of creation, “so lucky we are to nest here;” and the wind. My thoughts drift toward a time before time, somehow finding my tiny place in the grand plan, but ever more aware of something beyond, not quantifiable but palpable, indeed the fabled “music of the spheres.” How, why, I wonder does one inhabit this place; this time. No answers, just more fuel for the quest toward becoming one with the cosmic symphony. . .and all this on a fine day in quiet solitude among earth’s shining finery.
The flora and fauna are low-growing; lush tall grasses in every hue of green; heathers, some of which have early blooms hinting at the purple carpet that will cover these mountains by mid-September; Bracken, a very course, tall fern, green in summer and a vibrant yellow in autumn; and poking a stem of blossoms above the rest, Digitalis Purpurea, Purple Foxglove–long a source of a life-saving heart drug. Along with the occasional red poppy, they combine, Monet-like, playing nature’s pallette: green, brown, white, yellow, plum purple, red and blue, all arranged by a Master Artist.
The silence is deafening–so far removed from my everyday experience and extra-ordinary indeed. These mountains began as an endless tropical plain, some 7,000 miles from where they now stand. Scotland, and all of the United Kingdom were born of Pangaea, the mother-continent. Through aeons and aeons, moving each year no more than the growth of a fingernail, this young land crept north, tech-tonic plates colliding and pushing, pushing ever upward until these mountains were higher than the Himalayas. . .gradually hewn down into the solid craggy peaks we see today.
These hills are wrapped in a rich verdant cloak, base to peak. Low growing plants nourished by the abundant rain disappear into low scudding clouds hiding the secrets of the peaks. The land, birthed before plant, animal or human, echoes a tumultuous labor of fire and brimstone accounting for the basalt and granite monuments standing so silent today. Australian Aboriginal peoples, the Maori of New Zealand and Native American Indians call this the “dream time;” an all-encompassing description of the indescribable.
The light changes every second–racing clouds brush the peaks, hidden then revealed. Looking down the narrow glen you see the changing weather: dark, heavy rain; a few miles away, the sun peeks through, and so continues this dance between ethereal elements, always in motion.
Earlier today I was whisked 3/4 way up one of these mountains in an open-chair ski lift. Low season for this resort and I was the only person on the lift and one of three at this elevation. The whole of Glen Coe lay below me. Cooperation from the elements offered the most expansive vista of lochs, hills, glens, rivulets, and majestic peaks all around. A more accurate description must move to the arts: music, prose, poetry, painting and dance. Words are not adequate.
Turning to look upward toward the top of the mountain (to which there is no access in the summer), there are two small crags still full of last winter’s snow. A thermometer at my location read 48. . .only 14 degrees cooler than the temperature at the bottom!
Food for my soul; nourishment that never fills; ever transformative and gently transforming. Eat and be fed.
. . . Mark Scott, July 13, 2012, The Scottish Highlands