Rustling in the Undergrowth

I had to film a scene, and the setting was in some high, wild place in Scotland, or maybe Wales. My crew and I hiked up to the top of one of the luscious, rolling hills that surround my home, and I felt at peace. The grass was burnt straw, there were rocks scattered everywhere, perfect for tripping unsuspecting crowned apprentice Druids. The oak trees made the overlapping hills look like groups of rocks within a stream, covered by moss. A flock of wild turkeys gobbled along, a lone fir stood crookedly among its wiser elder oaks, a raven flew across the face of the sun, and the sky was a pure, cloudless blue. I finally began to get an inkling of what this land means to me, what it feels like to have your heart constrict with joy over the natural, overwhelming beauty of home, of land.