The flames burnt

blue, green and aquamarine, sea-salt soaked and so they should.  They have surely earned this their final dying moment of glory.

The bounty of a good day’s work.

Driftwood burning merrily on the fire.

Oak beams from galleons of a bygone era lost to the might of the sea.  Timbers from croft cottages fallen into disrepair along with the lifeblood of crofters chased from their lands by greedy feudal landlords.  
The Highland Clearances.  

Thoughts sailing through my head as I stared deep into the flames, mesmerised by the salt encrusted dancing colours.  Transported back in time.  The stories the timbers could tell.

Railway sleepers lashed with rope and dragged up the cliffs.  Interesting tree roots, shattered pallets fallen from cargo ships. Timber of many different colours and hues from around the world, trees all with tales to tell of their journey from life to death and then their final voyage across the sea.  If flames could talk what sea-salty yarns they could spell.

Sitting in the soft firelight, the struggle, the puff, the pull, the strain, the pain was so worth it.

The journey back in time was the ticket price paid in full.

A self sufficient life well lived.

The detritus of timber left by a long gone whaling station in the Artic. We never found  this amount of timber, sadly.