Bird song carries on a still morning. The yaffle of green woodpeckers, chaffinch and great tit, robins dominant. I listen for skylark. Any time now they'll return to Scout Scar. I know not to expect their song-flight until they've settled in, learnt their song again. Perhaps there's a tentative skylark phrase- I can't be sure. The weather forecasters warn that a blast from Siberia is coming our way so that will be a shock for wildlife. Today is mild and balmy.
I wander off-piste, over rafts of limestone clitter, and discover a couple of new erratics- new to me, they've been here since the Ice Age came to an end.
Nan Shepherd takes me there. A summer's day with heathers in bloom and the hum of pollinating insects: the place of heathers with bees, butterflies, common lizard and green tiger beetle. In deep and dreaming deeper. In the afterglow. my days in the heather become indistinguishable from hers. A summer night on the bare mountain in her beloved Cairngorm? I shall be out at sunrise, silent and still, pressed against Scot's pine and waiting for the crested tits to come down from the crown of the tree.
Siberian weather comes from the south-east and dawn comes with flush of rose through green and grey-blue. My camera resists a green sky as counter-intuitive. But we know.