November story #8

The wind sighed through the browned grasses of winter, now encrusted with a delicate selection of rime. The sun climbed over the eastern horizon, which showed a jagged outline of distant mountains. Slowly the icy gems melted into tiny drops of water, clinging on to the dead stems. The rigid surface of the moorland loch imperceptibly resumed its motion in the winter wind. Apart from the demure hues of brown, green, yellow and black, a garish blot of red and blue could be seen at the shore of the lake. Just some bits and pieces left behind from summertime. Out of place, though. The trail north towards Filiscleitir was a very rough affair, the traveller having to negotiate tall ridges of peat, and there was no shelter on the way. Who would want to leave their coat or whatever behind in such inhospitable terrain? A man slowly made his way south from Filiscleitir, the chapel walls now standing out white far behind him. Out at sea, a boat was making its way north, past Cellar Head, past the inlet of Cuidhsiadar and back towards Cealagbhal. Back to where it had started the previous night.

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