A climb up the Mountain of the Witch soon brings us among the burial stones of the past. The landscape of undulating hills and colliding clouds watch over this most ancient of places. Our feet walked where others had walked, our hands touched stones which others had carved, meanings now long forgotten. The wind that blew around us must surely have blown around those who built the cairns. We are the same, separated only by time. What will be the remnants of our culture, for future others to find?