Sitting in the rain, on a flat stone that was probably once part of the window of the sheiling, I looked out across the grey sheet of Atlantic that separates Skye from Scotland.
The pattering on my hood was smoothing, calming, as if the world was on pause, as the murk drifted lower on the slopes of Beinn Sgritheal across the Sound of Sleat. A chaffinch chink-chinked from the dripping woods. A gull drifted and bobbed on the grey waves. The landscape was dim, silent and invisible.
I put my chin on my hand and pondered what it was all about, this landscape photography stuff, the tripods, filters, fora, exhortations to like and subscribe as another photographer is subsumed into the great videoverse, to leave the world of photography for that of the never ending quest for cash and recognition. The world of office lighting being applied to bland images.
It was then I noticed the leaf on the stone. The landscape stretches from here to there. No matter where here is.