He stood, on top of his world with only the wind in his ears and the harsh and rugged landscape to fill his view. His eyes began to water as the cold wind hit at his face, but slight irritation was nothing compared to the view he had worked to see. He removed his glassed and wiped them on a paper tissue he had in his water proof jacket pocket and smiled.Staring around he thought to himself, what a shame for people that can't see the beauty in a scen like this. Bare rock and heather cling filmed in Scottish brand mist and Autumn snows. Sharp peaks dropping into rounded hills. Sheep idly tottering here and there like clouds that decided to stay to rooted to the earth. He stayed rooted to the earth, and had no desire to float on either. He rubbed his salt and pepper beard with a gloved hand and nodded to himself as he removed his thermos flask from his rucksack and sat down on a particularly large rock left at the Cairn. Drinking slowly his pocket carried warmth while he continued his scouting of the land below. What secrets were held here? Where were the clans in their kilts running for their Bonnie Prince on these hills? Where were the money hungry land lords throwing out their poor tennants to make room for the ancestors of the sheep that grazed on the hills?