Scotland is beautiful. Its beauty is not that of the smiling maiden. It is that of the hawk, of the wolf, of the snow. It is the beauty of claw, of fang, of cliff and flood; of a world on the edge, of the fine line between death and life, of fear and adrenalin and joy. It is raw, it is wild and it is powerful.
It is as present in January as at Midsummer. It is there in the long nights and the short, in the mountains and the man-made. It confronts you in the open places, in the castles and the glens and the sea-shore, commanding to be worshipped. But is also lurks in the secret unexpected corners, waiting to be sought.
There is such a place on the shores of a quiet loch; the slowly disintegrating shell of an abandoned torpedo test centre. Nature is reclaiming and erasing this ruin of wars past. There are no barriers, no fences, no ‘Keep Out’ signs, only silence, and memory and beauty.