That everyone could see we are all ants scurrying round the palm of a sometime benevolent mountainside. To everyone, the riches of standing on the edge of a loch’s dropping off point, a thousand feet deep and falling. Be the perfect ‘o’ of a child’s wowing mouth beneath the soar of a golden eagle. Feel the scour of the wind as it strips trees naked, howling all around: “You are alive!” I wish you hills to climb, a housefree horizon, sunshine that hazes and stretches its arms. Have the gift of silence, the roar of the world and a sense of wonder at the push and the pull, the weft and the warp of a planet that holds us in a fold of its skin for all of the blink of an eye. Harry Gallagher