I remember being on The Oa on Islay with a group of colleagues and we saw a golden eagle, first perched on a sea cliff and then stooping down below us against the sea. Tennyson could have been standing next to us at that moment.
The Eagle
He clasps the crag with crookèd hands;Close to the sun in lonely lands,Ringed with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;He watches from his mountain walls,And like a thunderbolt he falls.
And if you are outraged by the fact that golden eagles are still illegally killed in this country then please sign the RSPB's bird of prey pledge - thank you.