On our way north to Ayr, we could not help but frequently stop, drift and listen to the perfect silence. Actually it wasn't quite a perfect silence. An occasional distant pip of an oystercatcher or mournful call of a curlew could just be discerned but they just served to delineate and accentuate those periods of complete silence in between.
It seemed a shame to disturb the silence with our noisy splashing but we knew that darkness would fall well before we arrived back at Seafield. On the horizon the dark pyramid of Holy Island was merging into the gathering clouds and Arran mountains behind as...
...we approached the dark basalt cliffs of...
...the Heads of Ayr. The cliffs were briefly illuminated by a blaze of the setting sun as it burst through a gap in the low clouds but...
...by the time we paddled into Bracken Bay, we were already in the cold shade of the approaching winter night.
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