Living is a wonderful thing.
A couple of months back, in the short space of four days, I was able to rekindle that warm, soulful realisation.
With friends, I travelled to one of the many western peninsulas of Scotland, to a small cottage overlooking Loch Sween: a narrow stretch of water outlining several inlets. There was a jetty; from the rocks there I watched the tide come in, and absorbed the painted, raging colours of the ephemeral sunsets that soon enough, faded away into a deep midnight blue. Before the light faded each evening, for what seemed like a fleeting moment, everything in view was etched with a delicate, golden lining of light. Everything in those moments was still.
We swam in the freezing cold sea, saw seals, went on long walks in wellington boots, laughed in the rain, found an abandoned boat shed hidden in the overgrown verdure of early summer, ran and stumbled on rocks, saw the mountains of Jura (the island where Orwell wrote 1984!), got left on an island travelled to by boat; it was pure wonder, and I would not have changed any of it for the world. And for that, I am most grateful.
All photos were taken with my trusty Nikon D7000