Wading through wheat fields up to our waists and long grass tickling our ears, Keir and I giggle and trip our way clumsily over uneven ground – sometimes squelchy, sometimes crunchy under foot. The sun is setting in the distance behind us leaving a glowing sky above as we struggle to see in front of us. Wispy smudges of cloud overhead making shapes in the glow.
We know where we are going, we’re just not sure how to get there. An old kirk surrounded by a red tinted wall, broken down in places, and apparently with no path towards it, and neck high nettles surrounding every possible entrance…but one.
Clambering over old tree roots and under archways of leaves, we enter the graveyard as the sun disappears over the Pentland Hills.
Thomas Mitchell departed his life here, and his entire family of fourteen children and wife Elspeth, whose remains lie near the headstone. A secret old church, known only to the wood pigeons and magpies. Truly magical. There is a small hidden path between two hedges which brings us slowly and peacefully back to civilisation.
We walk on wet feet back along the quiet track road to the studio with fresh inspiration.