Picture This: Dun Dornaigil Broch Whispers from the Mists

In the north, where the mountains breathe and the roads are but ancient paths slithering between gorse and heather, time and memory unfold, a brief flowering upon the moor. Between their amber petals remain the great works of long-forgotten kings, sights fit to make stars of your sockets, vistas of such magnetism they will rake you back across the fields of the earth. Here is one such spell. Strathmore keeps warm the Iron Age amidst winds roaring from Ben Hope’s mammoth slopes and red deer tracing the ridges, following the silent river to the sea. There is no anchor when Dun Dornaigil broch looms from the mist, piercing like a spear flung from the past.

What have we stopped looking for? What is its name? I can almost hear it on the breeze, see it on the crags and in Dun Dornaigil’s resolute facade, feel it in my skin and bones. This is why the Red Priest of Skail wandered this vale, why the hoary bones inside the broch turned to dust beneath the sudden sun, why I search this land reaching with the unknown and stunted sense of the forgotten sages. But the earth has a memory, and it is always reminiscing.