So I'm in Scotland's Western Highlands and Islands for a long weekend, having come up on the overnight sleeper train to Fort William. I paused the 7-Day Challenge at Day 3 on Friday, so I'm repeating Days 1, 2, and 3 while I'm up here, and resume at Day for when I get home on Tuesday. I do Day 1 in the harbour, it's quiet, not many people around. A beached lobster boat carries my daughter's name "Rebecca". I do Days 1 and 2 by memory: the air is sharp and clean, carrying the scent of Atlantic sea salt and kelp. In the fifty or so minutes I practice, the winter sun shifts over the foothills which part of the town clings to, the earth shifting yellow to red ochre patched with lichen grey-green as the shadows lengthen, the northern water an inky black shimmering gold and silver, slightly viscous in its coldness. The sharp air awakens my lungs, my blood, the flow of Qi; but my cold weather gear is restrictive, and my feet in running trainers struggle to ground in the shifting shingle. The tide is ebbing in, lifting Rebecca on her mooring. Some fishing boats start into port, not wanting to get in their way, I shift location. I do Day three facing west into the setting sun, shining primrose-gold through gunmetal clouds. Ahead of me are the isles of Eig, Rhum, and Skye: Skye's central mountains are snow-capped. Going west across the Atlantic, next stop Nova Scotia. As my gaze follows my hands the sea sunset shimmers, occasional seal and dolphin break the water making wake. This is the first time I've practiced out in nature. Facing west, I've taken off my North Face puffer jacket, gloves and scarf, just trainers, jeans, t-shirt and woollen jumper. Qi warms my body, only my hands feel cold in Wu Ji, Monkey, and Post. I'm reminded of teenage me, must have been what, '74, me 14 or 15? Overawed by terribly precocious Golden Flower meditations I wandered sensing, for the first time in my life, the Unity of Being. The feeling was sublime but uncanny, scared the hell out of me. I never practiced it again. Trying to run before I could walk. The story of my life. Perhaps now at 66 I am ready for it. Nearly. Or perhaps not.