Balranald Campground–North Uist

The weather is merciless
Our tent howls and tries to take off like a chained dragon
The noise of the storm is incredible
A rock concert of sorts

Naughty by nature

Everything moves

Even the athletic swifts have no chance and sit exhausted on a fencepost

The guiding lines vibrate with tension
Or maybe they are shivering in the relentless rain?

Our name sign is tagged into a wooden pool
the place number long gone

36

Thousands of wild flowers dance in rhythm of the gusts

A seagull is blown past the tent
She barely manages to stabilise

Summer in Scotland

I wear my woolly hat
And socks mum knitted for me
As I take in deep breaths of salty air
And listen to the deafening production