It is the familiar spirit of the place; It judges, presides, inspires Everything in its empire; It is perhaps a fairy or a god? (No, in fact it was a cat, ed) – Charles Baudelaire (the flowers of evil, 1857) The call of the desolate, dank and dead. Twilights veil settles thickly on a resting landscape. Nightfall’s gloaming orange light catching the harl, billowing mist unrolling like a generous feather duvet. Vapour peaks and troughs captured by the sinking Valium sunset form a myriad of grotesques as they rise and fall from sight. Unrelenting drizzle frames Scotland in driech endless