Monday, October ninth. Morning, dark thirty, on the coast of the North Sea in Connel/Oban Scotland. This land is a loneliness, a faraway, a quiet, cold wind pushing glowing fog up and down her banks. It is cold, moss-deep covered, ancient groves of trees each one a clarion. It is a setting for great tales, fairy, and warrior, tribal and seagoing, which grips the land and your imagination as you wind through deep forests and high bare hills along more trail than road. It keeps you, it has you. And as if to declare its welcome, white rams and sheep lay strewn about, one here, another away off there, each hailing whitely. It is a sacred land, where great peoples, great kings, and great warriors used to roam. And roam you would have to. There are no easy ways here, just narrow paths through an ancient land, each furlong pushing against you all the while, opening before you great beauty, drawing you along. It is an explorer’s Eden, an adventure’s bar…a Tennessean’s primeval, homeland.
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