The ridge hinges from its north axis to head east. Light fades but the sky is bright with blue and gold. Strathspey is entirely green, grass and darker foliage of conifers, apart fiery reflections from meandered loops of the river. It is windless: even the Nog, who doesn’t understand peaceful, sits watching the valley.Scattered snow like swagged net veils surrounding ridges and higher and further the valleys beckon upwards to blanketed white plateaus merging with cloud,
Sunday is for maintenance and renewal. House cleaning was interrupted by four guests to the farm, Edinburgh students, wanting to see the animals. Little Holly poses shyly, Morag’s arthritic leg is hanging almost useless, Billy lumbers over. At one stage he has the men on one side and the women on the other – all of them caressing him in a kind of wonderment. Happy man! Angus Halfhorn presents his neck to me then characteristically selects one of the visitors for half-welcomed greetings.
Next to complete the chores: load the log basket ( I will not start the heating until the water is threatened with freezing), split kindlers, load bottles and tins for the banks, set the sourdough to prove and out to the hill before I lose the light. I don’t have time for the full ridge walk so I flog up to the saddle along the old peat road assisted by my awareness of others passed the same way. On the crest the view opens to the west, ranks of snowy peaks hazy and luminous in the cold air receding towards the sea.
I hear ravens overhead, a fullthroated trouble of dogs, lazy car engines- somewhere a light plane. From here, the big house becomes a small house, it is clusters of houses that flag human occupancy in this wide waste. Headlights track lazily up the slope toward Drumochter summit – weekenders heading for home. Time I did the same- there is bread to bake.