Moniack Mhor many times before, so I won't go into details about the eerie quiet of the croft house, the whispering pages of the northernmost branch of the Scottish Poetry Library (see above), the expanse of Highlands every which way. It's magic.
As my last hurrah as salonierre, I wanted to organize a weekend for some of the Highland Literary Salon members at Moniack. It worked. Seventeen of us were graced by the presence of Alan Bissett and Joan Lennon for two days of food, typing, chat, edits, and readings. One person wrote 10K words. One got extensive feedback on a story he'd been working on for months. And we all left a little bit inspired.
I can tell that I'm letting go of the Highlands with each event, each jog around the Islands, each seal I watch in the river.