The cold, silent, dampness glistened in the spiders webs on the low bushes, grass and heather. The air was deathly still; the wet yellow and red flags clinging limply to their bleached poles. Ghostly mist sank in the low ground, gathering like a fine grey liquid; awaiting their next victim. Thousands had died here.
Water, like seeping blood, pushed out of the ground around my shoes as I slowly walked the curving paths. The grey stones were dark and sombre; their single clan names remembering that April day. Then the bleak mass grave where no heather had ever grown; Culloden.