Pine trees in Argyll. Reaching up to the sky and towering over the roads, filling up the slopes and clinging onto crags, they look down over lochs and glens, nestling in the bends of the burns or rooted in a mossy bog – they grow near enough anywhere. Swaying and creaking in the wind they die in storms, but even then they still support life.
Murdered in great uniform rectangles at the hands of the logging companies, ripped from their Wood Wide Web, they go off in trucks to the ports.
But always more are ready to grow, in the bare soil and shade of their fallen ancestors, or germinating in their decaying moss-covered stumps.
The soundtrack to this gallery is Whispering Pines by The Band
