It's a kind of magic......Perfect calm at dawn in Plockton, Wester Ross.

Poem.

 

We might go to the Seychelles.

We might go to Cape Town.

We might go to Italy’s Amalfi Coast.

We might go to Barbados beaches.

We might go to Copacabana in Rio.

We might go to Halong Bay in Vietnam.

All of these are surely superb, magnificent and marvellous.

But little old Plockton at sunrise takes some beating.

The eastern sunrise reflected off of this sheltered bay.

Tree-lined islands with prostrate Grey Seals.

Stepped mountains rising above a castle.

Thin yacht masts like threaded needles.

Receding layers of slate-grey mountain slopes,

silhouetted against the eastern orb.

A main street festooned with Cabbage Palms and Pampas Grass, interspersed by two or three beer gardens by the shore.

The etched black, grey and gold lines of a gently rippling loch,

part of a natural harbour covering over thirty square miles.

The deafening silence of dawn at 06:30, on an August morning.

How can a little fishing village steal the prize from many locations that are much more popular, but no more perfect?

How did David beat Goliath…….?

But he did!

 

Done