A Girl in Glasgow

Imagine that you’re cold. Not just a little chilly, but a cold that reaches deep into your bones; the kind of cold that paralyses fingers and vanquishes the warmth of your breath before it’s even left your mouth. Forget about your toes: they’re a lost cause. Now imagine you’re out in this cold at 7am, nervously stamping your feet in your hiking boots while praying for sunlight, even just a little, to break through the dense grey mass of clouds above. Your friends are running late, so try not to think longingly of your warm bed while you wait. Still with me? Excellent. Our adventure into the Scottish Highlands starts now.

Fast-forward five hours. We’re standing on the top of the hiking trail known as the Devil’s Staircase (which was far less devilish than advertised), out of breath but amazed that we’ve made it this high. Giddy in our success, the others decide to climb further, but I have an essay to write. Assuring the others that I’ll be fine by myself, I set off down the mountain towards the road that meanders through the valley below.

As I descend, the stark contrast of velvety snow and cragged rock softens into a wider palette of colours. Springy tufts of heather in yellows, greens and browns sprout eagerly around lichen-crusted stones. Having been dethroned from its previous dominance, the snow adopts guerrilla tactics and hides in hidden hollows and patches of shadow. In every direction, mountains stand guard over their kingdom while the valleys lie quietly shrouded in mist. I slow my descent, trying to decide whether my camera will do this scene justice. Deciding that it probably won’t but I’ll give it a go anyway, I find a rock to settle myself on and sit cross-legged with my bag in my lap.

As I stop fidgeting and my breathing slows, the world seems to freeze and I discover for the first time what pure silence truly is. Like dark treacle, it sits heavily over the landscape, the weight of countless years of history stifling all thoughts of movement or noise. The silence feels so tangible that if I hold my hands out in front of me I’ll be able to grab it. I hold my breath, trying to save the moment as long as I can but then my foot shifts beneath me; the moment’s lost.

I rise, realise that the back of my jeans are wet, and with a sigh continue down to the road and back to the sounds of civilisation. There are some things that photos can never capture, and I don’t need them anyway: I’ll never forget the day that I learnt how much silence weighs.