Algy had observed that his little green dragon friend was becoming a wee bit agitated, and he guessed that it might be feeling somewhat bemused and lost in the wild west Highlands of Scotland, which no doubt seemed a strange and alien land to a native of faraway Patadragonia.
So the next morning, which was fine but exceedingly windy, Algy suggested that they explore the local area around his home. He knew a wee sheltered spot by the burn where he thought his little friend might feel rather more comfortable, as it reminded him of a stream in Patadragonia to which the dragon had taken him when they had first met, almost a year ago.
Although it was mid-March, the landscape was showing little sign of spring green as yet, but while the two friends rested among the still-bare, scrubby bushes on the steep banks of the burn, yellow catkins danced on a small hazelnut tree on the opposite side of the water, and Algy knew that soon everything would burst into fresh growth once again.
The little green dragon seemed calmer beside the water, although whether that was owing to the delightfully soporific trickling sound which was always guaranteed to soothe any anxious creature, or simply to the more congenial location, Algy could not tell. But to soothe it even further, he began to recite, in a soft fluffy voice, a long poem which could almost have been written in the Scottish Highlands, but which in fact was the work of an American known as “the Keats of Kentucky”:
Misty are the far-off hills And misty are the near; Purple hazes dimly lie Veiling hill and field and sky, Marshes where the hylas cry, Like a myriad bills Piping, ‘Spring is here!’
A redbird flits, Then sings and sits And calls to his mate, 'She is late! she is late! How long, how long must the woodland wait For its emerald plumes And its jewelled blooms? She is late! she is late!’
Along the stream, A cloudy gleam, The pussy-willows, tufted white, Make of each tree a mighty light; Pearl and silver and glimmering gray They tassel the boughs of the willow way; And as they swing they seem to say, With mouths of bloom And warm perfume:
'Awake! awake! For young Spring’s sake, O little brown bees in hive and brake! Awake! awake!
[Algy is reciting the first part of the long poem Catkins by the 19th century American poet Madison Julius Cawein.]
Blooming thistle in North Harris (Na Hearadh), Western Isles. Mèabhaig gu Bogha Glas.
Bogha Glas is a 11 miles path, one of the longest single paths in the Western Isles. The path takes you through one of the largest areas of wild land in Scotland along a centuries old path used by crofters, fishermen and deerstalkers. The first 5 miles follows a good level track through Glen Meavaig. The track is then replaced by a hill path which climbs two ridges and crosses a wide glen before dropping steadily back down towards Loch Seaforth.
Sunset at Tràigh á Chorail, Claigan, Isle of Skye.
Even though it’s called Coral beach, it’s not really coral but crushed bleached skeletons of red coralline seaweed (Maërl) that makes the water look tropical blue when the sun comes out.
I know, I know, it’s a repost, but it’s autumn and I’ll be going to Scotland again in a few days, so yeah, to celebrate that, here is an old bridge crossing the river Shiel near Acharacle on the Ardnamurchan peninsula! Enjoy this beautiful season y’all!! 
This lovely photo by @paradoxdesign shows a scene not far from Algy’s home… but Algy has to add that in his experience it rarely looks quite this colourful - no doubt the beauty (and the colour) lies in the eye of the photographer
