The Old Shack
Sunday, March 14th, 2010
Sam Scribbler
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 regular achievement with the dog. It is almost a friend.