Kayaking

Shadowed by the policeman of a lingering pod of orca, shallow into the shore of an appointed camping spot.  Being tail-flipped into a series of rollicking capsizes by a playful dolphin, off the rocky extremities of Cape Wrath.

Two anecdotes told with relish by a consummate storm-going veteran of the outdoors.

He'd rounded our tents as we packed up for the early ferry.  What time did it leave? We shared our journey in German and English, back from Castlebay, through Oban to Glasgow.

I asked whether he had ever written about his experiences.  No, only his log books.  There were other writers.

Some refuse to accept the wild sea and land as unwelcoming realms,  but respectfully occupy their own place amongst other creatures and weather fronts.

We fixed his phone and I gave him a postcard drawn at Howmore a few days before.

two corbies

The subsidiary summit of Arthur's Seat is called Crow Hill.  These corbies were playing on the updrafts at Salisbury Crags.  Juveniles flirting on the wing, in search of their crow for life.

There were lots of them, crows were not rooks in this case. An exception to the rule:
~ If it's a rook it's a crow; if it's crows it's rooks.

A Drawing for A Dram

He was a rigger in recalibration after a stint of night shifts.

A large dram was administered as I sat outside drawing.  John sat on the other bench with the bottle of Bushmills.  He wore a jumper forgotten on the pulley by another (smaller) hosteler.  A couple more draughts were drawn before he disappeared rig-lagged into his room.

I don't know where this drawing is now, possibly on an oil rig miles out into the North Sea.  Autumn migration south may have taken it to a different beach hut.  A swap: heather and reed thatch for palm.