Collection: Sleeping Giants: Scottish Highland Landscape Art Collection
Sleeping Giants rise with the kind of gravitas that makes cathedrals look like hastily stacked bricks and existential doubt feel oddly charming. It's not merely a mountain, no—more a monumental embodiment of geological patience, the sublime in stone. To stand before it is to realise how little one truly understands scale—of the earth, of time, of one’s own internal topography. It doesn’t so much sleep as exist in a state of contemplative repose, like a philosopher mid-thought. You don’t just see it—you commune with it, albeit in a lopsided conversation where the mountain speaks in wind, and you respond with awe-struck silence.
As I climb, I find myself shrinking in the best possible way. Each step peels back layers of urban neurosis and digital detritus, leaving behind something simpler, truer—elemental. The path is less a route and more a ritual; an offering to the divine absurdity of striving. The higher I go, the thinner the air and the thicker the sense of revelation. Up here, among the clouds and the chorus of ravens, the sleeping giant ceases to be metaphor and becomes mirror—reflecting not just who I am, but who I might be if I stopped pretending I wasn’t full of wonder. And for a moment, just a moment, I feel I might wake the giant within—not with noise, but with quiet recognition.
