I did not wish to continue my fishing in such boisterous weather,
but contemplated a hasty walk over to my uncle's farm. Our way lay
westward in the face of the wind. The walk over the wet peat moss
was difficult and tiring, and when I reached the Ring of Brogar I
was glad to avail myself of the shelter afforded by the giant Druid
stones that stand and wait by the loch of Stenness.
All was desolation around: not a house was to be seen, nor any
living thing but my dog and a few wild birds that flew quickly
past. The only sounds were the beating of the rain and the distant
roar of the Atlantic waves upon the coast.
A slight lull in the tempest urged me on, and soon I had left far
behind me those mysterious old stones, that seemed through the
misty rain to waken into life. Like a procession of priests they
appeared to pass with bent heads and slow and stately pace along
the margin of the great stretch of water.
Crossing the swollen burn which connects the lochs of Cluny and
Stenness, and thinking only of my destination, I was called back by
a sharp bark from my dog. I turned, and found her encountering a
large otter that had been slipping down to the stream. Now, I had
the angler's hatred of otters, which abounded in these waters. Many
a time had I seen a prime fish lying dead on the banks with a
single bite taken out of the shoulder, and I looked upon the otter
as the common poacher of the neighbourhood.
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