It is an old friend, the stone. A friend to whom I infrequently pay my respects.
This year, sand martins are flitting, wheeling and turning overhead as I make my short respectful pilgrimage. Admiring the acrobatics of the birds above, I climb the stile at the back of the beach and make my way across the machair. It is a warm day. The sand is white and bright in the sun, the sea behind me a deep, clear blue.
I skirt the familiar grass grown sand dune, riddled with rabbit holes and walk through buttercup strewn grass. Although the beach behind me quickly disappears from sight, obscured by that sand dune, the sea remains audible. A low background accompaniment to the peace of a summer afternoon.
Ahead is another fence and stile behind which sits a grey standing stone, rising above a sea of grass and rushes. The stone is…
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