We wake to a morning of patchwork clouds and harlequin farms and turn our feet to the south and walking. We walk past the end of the pavement, past the last house, past the end of the road, past innumerable sheep roaming freely in the hills. And for all our passing we are never passed in return, the day sliding silently by without cars or fellow hikers.
At 3pm, as the sun sluices through gaps in the tumbling clouds our road turned trail tilts beneath my feet and the climb into the highlands begins.
The once broad glacial valley begins to pinch in on itself as water pours from the hills in a torrent. At one point I spy no fewer than 17 waterfalls plunging down towards us.
The definition of falling water is present in all its imagined permutations and I try and invariably fail to capture them with my camera. The sun scatters itself across the vibrant green hills as the clouds chase each other across the sky.
Our camp tonight is just above the collection of all these waterfalls on the banks of a torrential river. Tomorrow we continue our climb into the highlands from where all this water began its fall.
Great writing. Any trees up that way? Looking forward to hear more of your adventures.
Put very simply, you have a real gift with words! Thank you for sharing your travels with us. Xo