The purple heather

A domestic morning then a walk into the wild along the northside. I'd forgotten just how small the Goat's Path is which skirts the edge of the sea. We walked through the Crimea ( so called because all the neighbours were forever fighting), past the deserted homesteads of said neighbours, past the ruins of the copper mine circa 1847, across the very small ledge plus handy rope, down to the Cove and the wild waters where JG Farrell drowned and then climbed back up windy flower strewn roads over the peninsula. The colours were stupendous and the butterflies rampant.
Will has just made an excellent baked courgette, tomato sauce and tagliatelle concoction and we are now chilling. High key chillin' in the extra.