WESTER ROSS Wherever I go, I sense mountains: pyramids and paps of sandstone, limestone and gneiss replenish the psyche. To watch is to touch. Lochs live peacefully among them, purple and turquoise: at Gairloch, a great skua soars over the boat; I see a cormorant, a harbour of porpoises; a gray seal, almost asleep, her head above the water. On the horizon, Skye, Harris, brighten and fade in a thin mist. In Plockton, the lowest of rainbows grazes Loch Carron; the sun turns theatrical, illuminating a tiny island. Near the Pass of the Cattle, Highland cows and Jacob ewes are unfazed by the passing car – or by any invader, past or present. Copyright © JENNY JOHNSON