Findhornesque

I hadn’t realised Findhorn was a great mountain river - a cousin of the Spey but more direct and urgent - until we crossed her gorge one day heading back from Helmsdale that runs by the Flow country fair - a royal corruption if ere there were’t.

But I’d heard of the fabled ley-lined cabbages long before hereto.

So imagine my surprise after a few days absent on the terraces to see the spread of these great red leaves.

I can’t oercome the fecund second coming in these climes; the rapid vigour of soil oer filled by rain and dew.

The leeks to shreds are gone by some defective fly.

Winning and losing.

Like much bloody life.