Nothing to do with vintage, just a bit of whimsy regarding my life on Findhorn Bay.
Findhorn is the end of the world. At low tide a mixed colony of grey and common seals bask and sing on the sands of the north shore. Atop a small rise, amongst the dunes and marram grass, stands The Old Shack, windowless and silent. Abandoned, lonely, a brooding sentinel, it has become a reassuring presence on my daily walk with the dog. It is almost a friend.
RIP Old Shack - Findhorn
Click on the picture to read the full story.
Comments on this entry are closed.