Breath of fresh air

There's nothing like a week in the Highlands to clear one's head and remind one of the beauty of life. I am lucky to have a friend who lives there amidst dogs, chickens, deer, grouse and stunning scenery. This visit was not as stunning as a couple of previous ones. Once we were in an argo cat with my dear late friend, driving down a very steep hill. The two chaps were in the front and jumped off. I was in the back and the whole vehicle flipped over and partially landed on my head, leaving me concussed for 2 or 3 minutes. Another time, I was standing behind my friend watching him shoot duck. It was a cold November evening, snow on the ground. Men with guns crouched behind hessian sacks waiting for the ducks to come in. All was quiet, all in shades of sepia. It was as if we were starring in a black and white film. Shots sounded and my friend shouted,"Duck!" This is an ambiguous word to shout on a duck shoot. I assumed he was referring to the wildlife. It was only when a dead duck hurtled from the sky at full speed and landed on my shoulder that I realised my mistake.