Croc

We gathered eggs each morning from atop these ancient walls, lined with copies of the Oban Times to keep out winter squalls. The thatch had long since fallen in, a repository now for owls, cushioning and keeping safe their brood from anything that prowls in the silence and the darkness of a highland clachan night. Past generations long forgot had lived and toiled without respite, their humble dreams complete, within this smoky blackhouse, their communal retreat. A visit to the kirk for man and wife each sabbath, neatly dressed, would bring an easier after-life, in that they would be blessed. And so, two centuries later, we came to Monamore Glen and strangely found ourselves related to those who way back then had stoically awaited whatever fate might come their way, for all around, in every nook and cranny, something new and, every day, we felt them with us, ever present, as though they'd never gone away.