Glen Shiel

David pushed us through the Highlands toward the sea, foot on the gas pedal and drum and bass music blaring through the speakers. I don’t know what time it was. Close to lunch perhaps. Stark barren hills flanked us on either side as we drove on, looking for just the right place. Sunlight filtered in and out of view, rain came in fits, fog lifted then dropped again. It was as if the mountains were being shaped and sculpted that very morning.

Now we are at the parking lot at the base of the chosen hill. We climb from the car, dawn raincoats, backpacks, sack lunches and hats. We begin to make our way up the little trail. We talk about life and how much we love it. Rain pours on us and wind blows through us. Still we climb. I dodge mud pits and sheep droppings.

Water rushes down the hillside in its search for the quickest route back to the sea.

After some time we reach a peak. We are no longer sheltered by the hillside. It’s cold, very cold. I'm soaked through, my shoes taking on water with feet sinking fast. I fumble around inside my bag for a camera. My hands are so numb that it becomes a task just to press the shutter. Dave poses for a shot, I follow suit and then we quickly huff it down the hill.

The car is warm and dry, with heat spilling out from an open passenger door. I have to strip naked and change in the parking lot with rain whipping all around me before I can climb in. The music is back on and we are driving down the road again. I look out the window and smile, my head bobbing slightly as the beat plays on in the background.