Congratulations to the winner of our August competition. Feeling inspired? Have a go at this month's prompt.
“Time to leave base camp, Grandad.” Wiping the ice off his moustache, the climber squinted at the cloud-crowned summit. “You and your bucket list – I can't believe we’re doing this!” As he heaved at his rucksack, the dull, tinny rumble of the urn inside sounded uncannily like a chuckle.
A' fosgladh pòcaid fhalaichte an t-seann bhaga-dhroma, far an do stob mi uair, gun fhiosta dham phàrantan, dòrlach chalg-iubhair bhon chraoibh ann am Fartairchill, thaom aiste duslach mo chiad chuimhne agus sheatlaig mar an sneachd dà fhichead bliadhna de dhìomhaireachd air ùrlar a' chidsin, gam shaoradh bho eucoir m' òige.
Translation by Gaelic Books Council
Opening a hidden pocket in the old rucksack, where I once stashed, unknown to my parents, a handful of yew needles from the tree in Fortingall, out poured the dust of my first memory and forty years of secrecy settled like snow on the kitchen floor, freeing me from the crime of my youth.