I know it’ll be back, but the snow’s almost all gone from the hills I was tramping last week. Ben Lomond has a few wee snotters on it’s brown slopes and it’s a wee bit sad looking, unexpectedly bare if you know what I mean, like a patch of darker paint on a museum wall hidden for year behind a just-stolen masterpiece.
I like that thought, winter hills are indeed masterpieces. Snow seems random, but the wondrous swooping or jagged forms it creates look sculpted by an inspired and imagination fired hand.
Then we just walk across it while gawking at the view. Idiots.