Looniston. Hills, ridge and buckle northwards, and I ridge and buckle to stumbling on Burnish bracken, a small sacrifice in elegantly made in time of need. Little blue butterflies lap around my feet. I did not know that they might live up here. The world is sometimes good. The creamy cotton grass bows its many heads as one, respectful of the stern face Sunday men who strained to put a Christian face upon this mountain, staggering beneath the weight of the great fiddle they chased the devils out. I think I understand. Huge rocks hang like preaching places, receding worlds are distantly discerned. The narrow path has vanished into fog, a line erased in rushes. The broad path to is puckered, shaled, illusory. There is no summit, only further to go by secuartous ways. I have always known this of mountains that there are shards in the heather. Yet the breeze is brisk and there is still warmth in the sun. It is August. I taste the blabery's which stain the tongue so sweet and bitter. I think of you and smile for the beauty of the earth and your face long gone.