Three years ago, I wrote a note and buried it in the middle of a stone circle, beneath a rock at the center. The circle wasn’t made of tall standing stones the British Isles are known for, but smaller ones, easily carried and moved. But the circle was special and the land was special and I promised to return.
And so I did. I made my way back to the Scottish Highlands.
I don’t know entirely why I’m homesick for a place that I’ve never lived. But it calls to me, even now when there are too many months between now and when I next return.
Somehow, the Highlands have bewitched me. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.