Where is it?
The thing is – there are very little clues?
Is the fleeting glimpse of the painting of Eilean Donan castle drooping it’s oil in tiny sparkling rivulets to be relied on; the black background mountains to be believed?
At what point does anything become certain, solidifying into squares of Lego like matter in our brains, seeking roots?
Perhaps when the nighttime gives way to the burgeoning dawn, the answer might reveal itself?
Until then the shiver of the morning air poses yet another question to be weighed, not answered, does it not?