I haven't been here in ages. One year and six months, to be precise. And I have never been here in spring, never. Summer, autumn, winter were my five visits so far. And yet the loch is unchanged. The north end peaceful, with great campsites, and a steady outflow. The valve, the narrow connection between the northern and southern part, is ankle deep, as usual. One side is blowing over to the other side. This was just before the Great Wind arrived.
After the wind arrived, the waves were crashing into the southern beach with force. Foam everywhere. Crests, actual crests. I don't believe in lasting conditions, not after such a dull day, and pitch the miniature tent right there, at the end of the wind tunnel, just because. And, indeed, the air behaves, later that night.
It is the first bivy at the Best Campsite of the World. The little green thing is almost too small for my patch. In front of the tent: A half-burned log layed out over the fireplace. People have been there. Real people with wood.