The camera opens on a wide, misty highland landscape, the air still heavy with the scent of fresh rain. Summer grasses bend under droplets that glitter like silver, but the ground beneath tells another story. With each step of my boots, the earth ripples and sinks, not solid but alive — a spongy, quaking carpet of moss and water.

The video focuses downward as I press my weight onto the sodden surface. The moss swells and rebounds like a living sponge, tiny pools forming in the indentations before slowly vanishing back into the ground. It looks almost unreal, as if the land itself were breathing beneath my feet.

Around me, the highlands are hushed, the rain having washed the air clear. The distant hills are softened in a pale summer haze, and the only sounds are the gentle squelch of the moss and the quiet patter of droplets falling from blades of grass. The ground, saturated from the storm, moves in waves with every step, making the landscape feel unsteady, otherworldly.

This is no ordinary meadow. It is a bog — centuries of sphagnum moss layered and waterlogged, a hidden reservoir stretching beneath the surface. It’s fragile, wild, and strangely magical. Walking across it feels like stepping onto a giant, natural waterbed woven into the highlands.