Patrick MacGill

“The cold tang of the dawn was already in the air and the smell of the earth was keen in our nostrils, when Moleskin Joe and I breasted the steep shoulder of a hill together, and saw the outer line of derricks standing gaunt against the bald cliffs of Kinlochleven. From the crest of the rise we could see the lilac grey vesture of the twilight unfold itself from off the naked peaks that stood out boldly in the ghostly air like carved gargoyles of some mammoth sculpture. A sense of strange remoteness troubled the mind, and in the half-light the far distances seemed vague and unearthly, and we felt like two atoms frozen into a sea of silence amidst the splendour of complete isolation. A long way off a line of hills stood up, high as the winds, and over their storm-scarred ribs we saw or fancied we saw the milky white torrents falling. We could not hear the sound of falling waters; and white frothy torrents were the ghost streams.

The mood or spell was one of a moment. A derrick near at hand clawed out a lean arm, and lifted a bucket of red muck into the air, then turned noisily on its pivot, and was relieved of its burden. The sun burst out suddenly like an opening rose, and the garments of the day were thrown across the world. One rude cabin sent up a grey spiral of smoke into the air, then another and another. We sat on a rock, lit our pipes, and gazed on the Mecca of our hopes.”
― Patrick MacGill, Children of the Dead End