Gordo Goes Global: "... Climbed a Mountain and I Turned Around."

This post is just a quick one to share some of the jaw-dropping photographs that I managed to capture on Saturday just gone of Loch Tay, Glen Coe and the Scottish Highlands, Oban and Loch Lomond.

The Highlands to me represent the 'real Scotland', the capturing, enchanting, rugged and formidable landscape that bred tough tribesmen and women, conditioned for survival. These stunning views completely polarise what a tourist is treated to in Glasgow: drunks, junkies and nightclubs full of sweet Scottish lads, who only want a quick squeeze of your ass. The scenic panoramas were the backgrounds to some of history's most bloodthirsty and brutal tales of betrayal, death and animalistic brutality. The surrounds and summit of Glen Coe itself in fact were the sites of one particularly notorious blood-spill in 1692: aptly named The Massacre of Glen Coe. Tragically, 38 members of the Macdonald tribe were slain by the Campbells over a delayed pledge of allegiance to the new monarchy, with another 40 subsequently dying from exposure following the destruction of their homes.

Puzzlingly, at the peak of the mountain legend has it that not one bird will fly over the area, which many Scots know as 'The Valley of Silence/Weeping/Tears', named so due to the eerie feeling of desolation and complete silence that many feel upon reaching the top of the famed mountain.

Nowadays the area is a hugely popular tourist attraction, with a chairlift conveniently transporting tourists eager for an incredible panoramic view of the Highlands to the top. Although I am scared of heights, I decided that it was a time to push myself, to become a better me and jump on that chairlift. This decision was also swayed by the fact that my auntie and uncle had driven me all that way on their Saturday and also because they had actually paid for me to get my ass on the lift. Though it was nerve-wracking at first, I soon felt at ease, even relaxed enough to swivel my head ever so slightly for a more sweeping view of my ascent. Once at the top, I was thrilled, eagerly climbing another miniature summit which sat atop of the mountain (I should note that climbing up is a lot simpler than climbing down. And that one should never wear white converse and mom jeans whilst trampling around on a sludgy mountain). Further on in the distance I saw some mountain tops still speckled with snow (I, coming from sunny Perth, have never seen real life snow) and a seemingly all encompassing view of Scotland. At this point I would like to note that the temptation to break into a rendition of 'Landslide' by Stevie Nicks was pressing ("...climbed a mountain and I turned around"), however I did not want to ruin the moment for myself with the sound of my own voice, which somehow can jump from shrill to manly, and to any other undesirable point in between, often at an uncontrollable decibel.

Standing up there makes being a part of humanity seem so trivial - I felt that as human beings nothing we will ever amount to in our short life really counts for anything. Such spectacles of Mother Nature were there long before us and will most certainly outlive us, making whatever we create in (give or take) 100 years seem minuscule. I say so not to diminish our glories, but to remind all that perspective is pivotal - we can still do wonderful things in this world but we cannot forget that we are just a glitch on the spectrum of the universe, which I will not even try to comprehend with my insufficient mind and words. Such a truth should not be depressing however, but refreshing; as whilst our achievements may not ever seem like much, nor will our failures and shortcomings - of which our lives seem to be largely consumed by thoughts of.

At the conclusion of my travels I will endeavour to compose a highlights list (I decided that just then), of which reaching to top of Glen Coe will certainly be included.

Loch Tay.

Admittedly I required just a bit of liquid courage to conquer the summit.

The chairlift was great until it paused unexpectedly on the descent, leaving my auntie and I, both petrified of heights, swinging haphazardly at the steepest point.