During my semester abroad in Glasgow, Anja, Alex and I made a trip into the Highlands. We wanted to visit Urquart Castle at Loch Ness. We took a bus from Glasgow Square. On our way we stopped at Glen Coe and our driver told us the story of the massacre that took place there, when the MacDonald clan was slaughtered at the 13th of February 1692. The setting fitted the story: it was a very misty day, when we arrived at the pass of Glencoe looking westwards towards Loch Achtriochtan. Grey clouds hang deeply between the mountains and blurred the view. Loch Achtriochtan, normally glinting in the sunlight, was reduced to a milky shimmer, difficult to see. As well as the path that lead between the massive mountains. The eyes lost its track only after a a few meters, it seemed to me as the whole glen wanted to hold the wandered from run into ruin. I knew Glen Coe from postcards, bright and green, but the glen that greeted us wasn’t that inviting. It was a place that remembered very dark hours.