In the dark, dismal depths of a West Highland January, Algy perched on the dripping branch of a young ash tree. The dense Scotch mist had not budged for three days, even though the wind was blowing vigorously, driving the tiny droplets of water into Algy’s eyes and deep among his feathers. It was only just around midday, but it looked like dusk, and the small part of the world that was visible at all looked dim and blurry in the low light. Tucking his wings more closely around him, Algy dozed limply in the damp, dreaming hopefully of sunnier climes where the world was full of colour and light and warmth…

It was another dreich February day. The land was hazy with Scotch mist driving in off the sea with considerable force, and the wind was howling across the top of the moor like an angry beast – but it was possible to find a calmer spot if you knew where to look. Algy discovered a damp but comfortable perch on a tree hanging low over a burn which had carved its way down the hillside, creating shelter for those who clung to its banks. Algy felt chilled and exceedingly damp, but the sounds of the water running beneath him were soothing…

Listen to the sounds of this burn tumbling down the hillside in the Scotch mist.