capercaillies strange friend
Company was hard to come by in the rolling hills of Glencoe. It’s what made it glow. True, I have rarely left it, rarely touched the tinted air of bustling cities, alive with smoke, light and noise. I belong with the foggy rain, crisp cut mountains, fields of Highland cows, smell of pine coffee in the wet mornings of winter. I know the thickness of silence just as much as I know the Hooded Crow, where the silence danced at night, and took hold of the walls. I know the warmth of the Hooded Crow more than myself these days. The Hooded Crow belongs to my father, Errol. Belonged to Errol. He opened the pub forty years ago. In the seventies it was a sleepy, wilting pub, like the willow tree behind it. Just as sleepy as it stood today. But Errol welcomed whoever found their way into his pub with such an affection, that he rarely saw it empty. It brought our small community together, so company was not that hard to come by in Glencoe after all. I rescind my statement.
