That special place

Our last day in Rackwick – until the weekend.  We roamed forgotten crofts, shattering absences, families gone to Baffin Bay, lang syne.   The hidden, secretive, glen of Berriedale, the lazy burn with its leaky memory.   The bracken crackles, creasing under our boots. The heather endures, its desiccated bells tinkling still.  A woodcock, settled down, slumbering in a quilt of reesk; we flush it. 

Heading for home, gliding over the inky black sea, underpinning sea salt, under glowing stars.  Slipping into port.  Floating weightlessly inside the Flattie.