A Morning at the Scottish Sheep Farm

As dawn sliced through mist over the Highlands, I trudged into a heather-cloaked sheep farm where the air hummed with the earthy scent of peat and the tang of wool. Sunlight filtered through ancient stone walls, casting violet shadows on shaggy Highland sheep—their coats glistening like moss as raindrops rolled off curly horns. A shepherd in a tartan scarf whistled, and a border collie dashed through the mist, its black-and-white coat blending with the fog: "They know every crag better than the eagles," she said, adjusting a crook carved from gnarled wood.

Near the stone byre, a woman in a waxed jacket mended a fence, her fingers moving deftly over rusted wire. I knelt to touch a patch of bog myrtle, its scent sharp against the damp air. A rook cawed from a windswept oak, while a fawn napped in a clump of ferns, its spots mirroring the dappled light. Somewhere in the distance, a bagpipe’s lament echoed, blending with the bleat of lambs in the mist.

The shepherd pressed a warm flask into my hands. "Drink—heather tea keeps the chill out," she smiled, as sunlight spilled over a flock navigating a rocky slope. I sipped the sweet tea, tasting moorland and rain, and watched a golden eagle circle high above, its wings outstretched like the farm’s ancient boundaries.

By mid-morning, the farm bustled with activity: lambs were tagged in the barn, a truck arrived to collect wool, and children played among the stones, their laughter mixing with the rustle of drying peat. I left with heather in my hair, reminded that in Scotland, mornings unfurl in the patience of shepherds—where every sheep carries the moor’s wildness, and every misty glen holds the land’s silent, timeless heart.