I wasn’t sure I would find snowdrops on the island, a place with so few trees, but here they were, tucked away amongst the muddy paths of the castle grounds, waiting to have their picture taken.
Every year, in the third week of February, there is a day, or more usually a run of days, when one can say for sure that the light is back […] the light spills into the world
We are enjoying a run of days not just of light but of hour after hour of bright, glorious sunshine. With the seascapes the way that they are here, it’s enough to make you gasp, enough to make you forget yourself in nothing but light and a picnic and the feel of the sand beneath you and sound of the waves on the shore.
Walking back from the picnic the machair at Northton was full of lapwings, scores of them, the land was dotted with them, the sky was singing with them, forty or fifty rising up at once in front of us, spilling flashes of black and brilliant white in their acrobatics, till the heart was bursting full with it, spilling song, spilling poems, spilling light.