Towering basalt cliffs, striated and turfed, punished by the wroth sea and roaring hysterics of the wind, stand in monolithic acceptance of the rain pounding from the anvil sky. Beneath the glacial waters of the Little Minch and through the Sea of the Hebrides, the causeway of the giants extends southwest to County Antrim. Birds have given up hopes of flight here at Neist Point, the Isle of Skye’s most westerly landfall. The air is a wall of banshees; each step toward the cliff’s edge a flailing advance. Wings of iron, salt, and dirt slam into my nostrils. Basalt golems trudge down the coast as far as eyes can see, the cloudy cyan sea frothing at their feet like rabid selkies.
The turf beneath my feet is spongy and riddled with rabbit warrens, could give itself to the starved sea at any moment. These basalt warriors will fall beneath the waves, in time. Not even they can withstand that encroaching iron-bar horizon. Time, erosion, the disappearance of things. If I could time-lapse this spot for centuries, the people here would be little more than a flicker, a question in the brow, a wonder. I’ve lost myself in a trance instigated by the deafening sea and sky. My red, burned cheeks run with windy tears. And there was some knowledge here.