God’s hand: wild, forlorn and rugged, damp and sublime, terrible and winsome. Stone cottages are being overgrown with grass and moss, or are falling into decay, deserted by men.
Once a week the sun shines, and then the mountain peaks are revealed in all the inexpressible tints of blue; and there is blueness which is azure, mother-of-pearl, foggy or indigo, clouded like vapours, a hint or mere reminder of something beautifully blue. All these, and countless other shades of blueness I saw on the blue summits of Cuilin, but there, added to everything else, can be seen the blue sky and the blue bay, and this simply cannot be narrated; I tell you, unknown and divine virtues arose within me at the sight of this unbounded blueness.
But then the clouds creep forth from the valley and mountains, the sea turns grey, and a chill rain flows from the drenching slopes. In the home of some worthy folk the peat is burning on the hearth, a lady with a Greek profile sings Scottish ballads,
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