Wet stone, green air. Summer rain in the glen.
Pine needle and eucalyptus together are the Highland air after rain — one alone is Christmas, together they are Scotland in summer. Cypress at ten is the dark conifer on the ridge. Patchouli and vetiver make the moss; neither reads as moss alone. Lavender at six is the heather — August is when it blooms. Keep the eucalyptus at three — any higher and it becomes a chest rub.
An August walk above Loch Voil, up the steep side of the valley into the forest. The Scottish light goes on far too long, and the rain, when it comes, leaves everything greener than it found it. There's thick moss on every surface, the rocks, the roots, the fallen trunks. Heather on the open hillside below, but up here it's all canopy and fern, the loch a long silver line through the trees. The waterfall's somewhere close, loud enough to stop a conversation. Everything growing, the way it only does when the rain has never really stopped.