Canna

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Canna is low and quite fertile compared with Rum, and lying to the west escapes much of the rainfall. Walking through a wet meadow full of buttercups and clover it is the silence that I find so remarkable: it has depth and spaciousness through which the cry of a lamb, the call of an oystercatcher, the twittering of woodland birds, even the sense of my own heartbeat, are all thrillingly clear.

Steve’s call, “Peter!” is almost shocking as it cuts through. I turn to see him pointing high up in the crags. Following his pointing arm I see an eagle, flapping hard to gain height and avoid the mobbing crows. It then soars across toward Compass Hill, circles for a while, then seems to swoop down so we lose sight of it against the hillside.

Later, we walk across the machair on Sanday among a profusion of wildflowers to look across the Sound of Canna to the steep cliffs at the west side of Rum. The rain has blown through and the air is marvelously clear, and looking back we have a clear view of the basalt terraces of Canna and beyond the west coast of Skye

Among basalt outcrops
Spotted orchid, ragged robin–
Mind the heavy footfall!

Blogs posted courtesy of Cafe Canna–most thoroughly recommended!

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