The wind was blasting across the moorland and the peat bogs, and Algy had considerable difficulty maintaining his sangfroid… He tucked himself down as tightly as he could on the lee side of a large clump of grass, and surveyed the strange scene in front of him. Everything was out of sync this year, and it resulted in a peculiar combination of colours. The white water lilies were flowering on the lochan, too late, and the grasses were taking on their autumn hues of gold and russet brown, too early. But the bracken was still bright green in most places, as though nothing was out of the ordinary.

Algy had heard that the “jet stream” had got stuck in the wrong place, producing the terrible weather that had plagued the West Highlands throughout the spring and summer. From where he was sitting, it seemed to Algy that he had acquired his own personal jet stream, to whistle through his hair and blow his feathers into his eyes, and he really rather wished that it would stop…

[ Visit Algy’s own web site ]

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