I was blown away yesterday …

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… literally, through the gargantuan Dunes of Forvie. Being the first sunshine seen in Scotland since summer last year, it was worth braving the accompanying sand storm to have a well needed wander. Dressed like an Antarctic explorer I fought through the warm wind (complete with sand) at Forvie Nature Reserve …

… situated a few miles North of Mr Trump’s ‘Great Dunes’, these constantly evolving giants were currently being eroded by the sand, creating rock-like sculptures. Compressed by the flow of the wind, the structures resembled a younger, mini version of the Grand Canyon.

As the wind tore through the grass covering these massive formations my mind was injected with visions of ancient creatures of a forgotten time…  slumbering, so I instinctively lightened my step …

… I had intended to descend slowly, and take in the panoramic views of the extensive bay but the wind at my back forced me to quicken my step to a “Jesus! I hope I survive this” pace and then, after an hour of struggling through this formidable invisible force  (even though I was wearing sunglasses for protection it was necessary to close the eyes), it simply ceased . ..

Sheltered by the wind by these mysterious sleeping giants I sat, hypnotised as the wind ripped and tore at these creatures that remained defiant. The winds meandering through the grass like the fur on a shaggy dog under the hair dryer as I gently stroked them with my eyes. Now and then nesting birds arose for a minute, fluttering madly, struggling slightly and settling back into the safety of the pelt, from the pelt of wind …

… as I sat in contemplation I understood why Donald Trump fell in love with the Dunes of Menie. But why would anyone want to tame them? I think of New York, the massive structures built by Man, hard + cold. Just a brief moment …

… before feeling asphyxiated and returning to where I can feel my inner child breathe again, albeit with traces of sand and dirt and the rare bit of debris to slap me on the side of the head. I thought it best to push-on. The sand was surprisingly firm underfoot, still wet from the long winter and I was starting to curse wearing knee-high walking boots when another gush of wind pushed me headlong to be confronted by the wide expanse of the beach, and greeted by the ferocity of the North Sea. As she roared, rambled and rolled before me, the wind storm raged behind me propelling me Northward …

… with my human intervention I had no choice but to be a part of it, my body creating an obstacle the sand storm appeared like smoke ahead of me, resembling some purifying mist, acting as a prism for the suns rays and creating little rainbows as it slowly filtered toward the outgoing tide where it was swallowed up by the waves.

Free, wild and blessed to be alive.

(Picutres now added, we had a good day in Scotland, Cameras, Wind  & Sand don’t go hand in hand)

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