twenty-one weeks gone.

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Saturday morning I wake up early, take the train from Edinburgh to Stirling, from Stirling to Perth. C meets me in the parking lot of the train station. Our rental car is sky blue; we manage to get lost almost immediately. The drive to the Isle of Skye takes five hours. It is grey the whole way but it never really rains. We stop in Fort William for coffee and make it to our inn by three o’clock. C keeps up a constant barrage of welcomed Scottish trivia.

Everything in Scotland has a story, she says as we drive past Glen Coe.

Skye is hazy and dim when we reach it but we beat the sunset to a place called Faerie Glen. Someone has made a giant heart out of stones. It’s windy and surreal; everything is miniature-sized and the landscape looks like something out of a children’s book.

They believe the fairies used to live here, C says. They make those circles out of stone to try and call them up again. 

It’s not too difficult to imagine those stories are real. Everything is green, alive, even in the dead of winter. The grass is spongy and wet. The sky is darkening and impossibly large.

Later, we make a fire. I’m asleep by ten. I wake up in the middle of the night. The hills of the highlands have slipped into my dreams. I fall asleep to visions of clouds, visions of mist, visions of rock.

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photographs taken in Glen Coe with a Canon 60D

find all weekly travel updates here.

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