The single-track road curves away to the west, following the dark shore. Straight still pines look unsure in this undulating landscape, but when the rain sweeps in they hold steady, riding the strobing surge as one. The downpour billows wide like a net curtain released from a window flung open. Higher up, the river courses down the slopes against the wind, the water streaming off granite like smoke. There are no ravens in the sky now. What strength do the birds have to maintain their grip in the face of this onslaught?

Perhaps their strength comes from the knowledge that the tide will pass. When the worst of the storm moves before us, the sun begins to shine gently through the clouds. The deep-wine tips of the birch poke through the hillside, like the underside of embroidery, and the dun-wet rushes have been buffed to a purple shine.  At a distance the full burns rush with a faceless stony white, but seen closely their foam is creamy with peat. Raven calls begin to echo in the hall of birch; in ones and twos they lift to embrace the wind that remains. A double rainbow appears in the grey sky, but our attention is suddenly shifted down to the soft brown feathers of a buzzard tensed in a visual shriek as it swoops in a fast curve across the road, level with our headlights. Ultimately, the strength to hold on comes down to one thing: you have no other choice.