November story - #12

The low midday sun carried no warmth as it shone in the back of the lone walker. He only made slow progress through the tortured moorland landscape. Tough heather on the tops of low ridges, with spaghnum moss shrouding treacherous bogs only a few feet ahead and below. Deviations from the route were frequently necessary past the high cliffs of Dun Othail, and it took him a while before reaching the lip of the valley of Dibidil. Either go down more than three hundred feet to the valley bottom - and the same 300 feet back up to the bothy; or another deviation inland. The up and down route it was going to be. Upon reaching the bank of the little stream at the bottom, the walker took a break. Something caught his eye that glistened in the stream.

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