photosworthseeing:

adventuresofalgy:

As forecast, the sunshine lasted only one day and Sunday was dismally grey, with the clouds drifting low over the hills once again. But at the very last minute before dusk, the setting sun managed to break through a wee gap in the heavy bank of cloud, and illuminated some of the ridges with a faint magenta glow. Algy perched on a cold rock to watch for a moment or two, knowing that in just a few minutes more the light and the colour would be gone…

I always love to follow Algy’s adventures and right now I would like to sit next to Algy and listen his stories in this beautiful evening mood. Algy’s assistant Jenny captured this photo and mood perfectly.

PWS – Stephi

Algy was so thrilled to see this adventure appear on @photosworthseeing!

Thank you Stephi 🙂 Algy sends you lots of very fluffy hugs, and says that you are most welcome to sit next to him any time you like, and he will tell you all his very best and fluffiest stories xx

Source: adventuresofalgy

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As forecast, the sunshine lasted only one day and Sunday was dismally grey, with the clouds drifting low over the hills once again. But at the very last minute before dusk, the setting sun managed to break through a wee gap in the heavy bank of cloud, and illuminated some of the ridges with a faint magenta glow. Algy perched on a cold rock to watch for a moment or two, knowing that in just a few minutes more the light and the colour would be gone…

Algy had spent a long afternoon composing ditties. The moon was beginning to climb in the sky as the last of the evening sun lit up the ridge, but Algy wasn’t watching. He balanced his rhyming dictionary rather precariously among the branches and sat lost in reverie, wondering whether he really could rhyme  ‘orange’ with ‘challenge’ as the book suggested.

Algy Flies into the Western Waves of Ebbing Day

Suddenly, after a long, grey day of dense Scotch mist:

           The western waves of ebbing day
           Rolled o’er the glen their level way;
           Each purple peak, each flinty spire,
           Was bathed in floods of living fire.

[From the First Canto (XI) of The Lady of the Lake by Sir Walter Scott. An 1883 edition of the entire narrative poem is available at Project Gutenberg.]