Sunday Morning at Loch Garten

This is God's own country up here in the Spey valley, even though He might have wished for it to be a bit warmer.

Romantic sounding names Rothiemurchus, Dalfaber, Pityoulish, Morlich, Drumuillie, Feshie, Inverdruie, Auchgourish flowing like music off the tongue

Mountains with late snow in the corries, and flat capped by low cloud
Dark blue brown hills seen through a light veil of a rain shower sweeping in
Wide rivers with stoney shingled banks

Fishermen standing waist deep in water with rods drifting in the current

Smaller streams tumbling down rocky hillsides
Baby waterfalls by the side of the road

Pine forests, the trees standing straight as ram rods with fringes of needles visible only if you crane your neck to the sky
Lochside paths softly carpeted with pine needles and criss crossed with veins of gnarled grey weathered tree roots

Mossy boulders sitting in the peat brown shallows of the loch
Bird song in amongst the trees

Stillness, no movement save the rippling of the water

But today, no red squirrels or ospreys to disturb the tranquillity.

Loch Garten on a Sunday morning in May, just his Lordship and me in God's own country.