March is an old English word meaning border – as in the Welsh Marches, or in describing one county as marching with another.
After 72 hours of constant gale-force to severe-gale winds from the south east, with everything chilled to the core and enveloped in a clinging damp that spreads like a virus – today was a relief. Soft winter sunshine, mild breeze …
Tilly and I made the most of it, with a walk following the northern marches of the Cille Bhrìghde Common Grazings.
The boundary was, anciently, marked with a bank of earth and stone, and behind it a ditch from which the bank was raised. The boundary marches close to a curious rock formation – The Perched Stone.
At three or four tonnes, boulder woud be more accurate. It will have left like this by the retreating glaciers, many thousands of years ago.