Walking Scotland

On Monday, I find a furry Highland Coo up in the highlands, patiently stood statue-still, it’s brown twin reflected on a black Mersadies parked nearby. 

On Tuesday, I walk to the Ballast Bank, with a small picnic and some fizzy Irn Bru along with other fantastic treats.

On Wednesday, I saw St Patrick’s Primary down at the shore in Troon by the Firth of Clyde.

On Thursday, I touch Dundonald Castle, feel the loneliness of frosted stone, and watch my watch ticks every heart-beat like drums in the Scottish band.

On Friday, I taste Irn Bru fizz down my throat like a bath fizzer in my cosy bath changing colour of the water slowly.

On Saturday, I hear somebody and feel it’s echo reverberate under The Railway Bridge.

On Sunday, I dream of The Smugglers Trail being trampled on and disappearing away like a lost memory fading away.