The bleak beauty of the far north

You can easily spend days driving through this moonscape of brown,black and grey. When the clouds roll in, even the lochs take on a mercury sheen.
Scotland is a small country, but up here, everything seems vast. The mountains are so old, their edges have worn away. They have become hulks that have curled up to sleep.

But their shapes also give them character from which to build our myths. Below an ancient man with furrowed brow, burdened by time but never too weak to spring to life and swallow trespassers.

Head down into the valleys and become enraptured by the colour of rust, which bleeds into green and blooms around the spider web strings that slink down the hillsides. The mist will be cold. It is like a fabric made of tiny vibrations, woven with the express purpose of shaking the awe from your bones.