One year ago today I spent a chilly, rainy, mist-soaked day hiking The Fairy Pools in Glen Brittle on the Isle of Skye in Scotland. No filters are needed for this otherworldly landscape. Often, when you dream of being in a place for so long, it's to be expected that it will disappoint you once you actually arrive. Mismatched dreams and realities can break your heart a little, especially when they happen over and over again.
The Fairy Pools were better than I could have imagined. The keen saturated green of the grasses, hard to capture on film; the less definable fog over the distant peaks beckoning me to keep climbing into the clouds, resisting the permanence of a photograph; the icy cold white foam gush of the pools themselves and how sacred it felt to plunge my hands into the water and touch my freezing fingers to my face, a baptism of my own making in the Highlands.
The skirt I wore on this hike got soaked with Scottish rain this day, and I still relish in this knowledge of the extraordinary moments woven into the fabric whenever I have worn it since. My curls matted to my head under the alpaca hat I had purchased on the island just that morning, perpetually wet with the mist that permeated every molecule of that early July afternoon. I was crestfallen to realize that we would not have time to climb to the horizon before our driver arrived at the car park to take us back to our inn to dry off, warm up, and eat dinner. So, we said that this finite time at the Pools was all the reason to come back: to leave something undiscovered for next time.
I'm still dreaming about making it to that horizon, my body flexing with the memory of making my way over that ancient, rugged terrain.
Of being under that big sky that stayed light so long that it didn't surrender to show its stars until well past midnight.
Of letting that Highland rain once again soak my skin, reminding me that just when there feels like there is nothing new to knock you back and astound you, a mountain rises up from nowhere and dares you to ascend to something absolutely astonishing.
Wishing you all a reason to return to a place that has held your heart in its hands. May you leave something undiscovered for next time.
The Fairy Pools were better than I could have imagined. The keen saturated green of the grasses, hard to capture on film; the less definable fog over the distant peaks beckoning me to keep climbing into the clouds, resisting the permanence of a photograph; the icy cold white foam gush of the pools themselves and how sacred it felt to plunge my hands into the water and touch my freezing fingers to my face, a baptism of my own making in the Highlands.
The skirt I wore on this hike got soaked with Scottish rain this day, and I still relish in this knowledge of the extraordinary moments woven into the fabric whenever I have worn it since. My curls matted to my head under the alpaca hat I had purchased on the island just that morning, perpetually wet with the mist that permeated every molecule of that early July afternoon. I was crestfallen to realize that we would not have time to climb to the horizon before our driver arrived at the car park to take us back to our inn to dry off, warm up, and eat dinner. So, we said that this finite time at the Pools was all the reason to come back: to leave something undiscovered for next time.
I'm still dreaming about making it to that horizon, my body flexing with the memory of making my way over that ancient, rugged terrain.
Of being under that big sky that stayed light so long that it didn't surrender to show its stars until well past midnight.
Of letting that Highland rain once again soak my skin, reminding me that just when there feels like there is nothing new to knock you back and astound you, a mountain rises up from nowhere and dares you to ascend to something absolutely astonishing.
Wishing you all a reason to return to a place that has held your heart in its hands. May you leave something undiscovered for next time.
