A memory of Scotland

A memory of Scotland and wolves. Clan MacLeod and the Isle of Skye. Loch Coruisk vicinity, the smell of sea and fresh water, mist hanging in the hills. We stay at a large and long dark old hotel. I walk into the foyer, a long grayish green hallway with large blackish paintings and arrays of faded furniture. It smells a bit damp, musty. There's a baroque mirror on my right and I am drawn to looking into it as I pass by. There's a half moon table under it for gloves, or mail and what have you. There's a slow movement coming from under the table and for an instant it feels like the table itself is rising and starting to walk off. As high as the table, long rough brindle-grey shaggy coat and a low slung head that resembles a craggy rock suspended in the air, long legs that keep unfolding. It begins a loping walk down the hallway, silently, quietly, thinking somehow itself invisible. I have stopped breathing, watching. " Oh, don't werry the innkeeper says blithely, warmly, "tha's Lewsy. wuhn't herta fly."  Wolfhound, my father says from behind me. I fall in love. Later in life I will have a dream I am standing on a castle rampart, two of the wolf hounds walking at my side. I lower my hand, run my fingers through their deep coats, and know I am safe.