Arran's Standing Stones

Wind whips grassy waves

Skylark trails spirals of song

Tall stones slice the sun

The sky darkens over the mountains to the north, but to our left, in the east, the sea sparkles. A strong wind buffets us as we tramp over the coarse tussocks of marsh grass.  Oliver’s small hand is warm in mine; he pushes his face into his coat, retreating from the cold.  William runs ahead, excited by the sense of discovery. The grass ripples in a golden ocean, William’s red coat billows like a spinnaker.  Our ears ache with the incessant wind.

We startle a skylark, and it explodes into indignant song, climbing in jerky, breathless bursts high into the vivid blue sky.   We reach the first stone circle and crouch behind the largest stones, taking a moment’s rest from the wind’s onslaught. Concentric rings of rounded grey boulders nestle in the rough grass, with gaps here and there like missing teeth.

Respite over, we continue across the exposed curve of the moor towards the standing stones.  They punctuate the land, slicing through the grass and reaching towards the sky. Crisp shadows spring out where they meet the earth.

The little hand slips from mine and the boys run together, stumbling as their feet catch in the bracken. They reach the stones and their excited cries carry back to us on the wind. They run between the stones, flattening their bodies against them, pressing palms and cheeks into their pitted flanks.

‘Why are they here?’ they ask.

The wind whips our hair into our faces. The clouds hang heavy over the mountains. The skylarks sing regardless into the blue sky. The stones stand on the moor, defying four millennia.  

They are the question, and the answer.