A walk at the Whangie

Is it through the Whangie, to the Whangie, round the Whangie?

If you don’t know what I’m on about, or you think that, perhaps, I’ve come over all post-watershed, I will explain.

The Whangie is an odd rock formation in a corner of the Kilpatrick hills.

We walked there this week and the sun shone. Snow crunched under our feet while wet stuff loomed on the horizon. A curlew keened. A grouse disturbed clattered away.

Scotland showed herself, once more, to be beautiful, surprising and uplifting.

But what were we doing wandering about the Whangie on a school day? Clearly we were having a good time and certainly we were doing a good thing.

You see it was the day my brother should have been 40. By rights, we should have been getting ready to go his party, but we weren’t. Instead, we got together and walked in his name, talked a lot and toasted him in the snow.

I am a thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints on snow.

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