The lost fishing rock of Sanna Bay .... Ardnamurchan.

Near the sandy cove on the way to the Glendrian Caves there exists still, though it is slipping away from the world of men and dissolving into wilderness, a fishing rock we patronized, my grandfather and I, a fishing rock long fallen into disuse and no longer, I think, known to anyone but myself.  I passed near it the other day and on an impulse tried to find the actual scene of a picture that even yet looms darkly in my mind.  (The rock had been one of our favourites.)  After some searching and no little hesitation I did find it; not the black steep reef of my memory with the still blacker figure of my grandfather perched atop, but a mildly-stepped platform, sunny and bare and utterly deserted.


For the life of me, however, and for the life of the rock, I could not remember its name and I have not remembered it since.  And though it may not matter very much I feel I have betrayed a trust.  Because of my carelessness a pleasantly useful place and the row upon row of shadowy earlier fishermen who frequented it have slipped an inch or two more deeply into the great bog that is limbo.

An excerpt from Night Falls On Ardnamurchan by Alasdair Maclean.

On the day that a Viking Chieftain's burial ship has been excavated on the Ardnamurchan peninsula after 1,000 years.

Painting:  A place to rest, Sanna Bay, Ardnamurchan