Windmills are going to be the death of Scotland and even England

“Windmills are going to be the death of Scotland and even England if they don't do something about them. They are ruining the countryside.” — thus declared Donald Trump, in tones of warning and lament, as he gazed upon the highlands of Scotland and saw not progress, but desecration. In these words, though born of controversy, there lies a deeper reflection — the eternal struggle between human advancement and the preservation of beauty, between the urge to harness nature and the duty to revere it. Trump spoke not merely of windmills, but of a vision of the world he feared was slipping away — the old landscapes, unbroken and untouched, the sacred quiet of the earth before man’s machines began to hum.

To understand his meaning, we must first know the origin of this statement. It arose in the early years of the twenty-first century, when the winds of the North Sea were being harvested for energy — a new frontier of renewable power, a promise of cleaner days ahead. Yet to Trump, who had built his fortune on grandeur and spectacle, these towers of steel were not symbols of hope, but blades that scarred the horizon. He had invested deeply in the beauty of Scotland’s coastline, in the green slopes near his golf course at Aberdeenshire, and he saw the new wind farms as intruders upon nature’s perfection. Thus, his words came as both protest and prophecy — a cry that progress, if left untempered by reverence, might consume the very splendor it sought to preserve.

Whether one agrees with his view or not, there is an ancient truth hidden within it. For every age faces this question: How far may man reshape the world before he destroys its soul? The builders of cities once felled forests to raise their temples; the miners dug into sacred mountains for iron and gold; and in every age, the poet or the prophet has raised a hand to say, “Beware.” Even now, as humanity seeks to heal the planet through new technologies, we must remember that every act of creation is also an act of transformation. Trump’s words, fierce and hyperbolic, remind us that progress must walk hand in hand with balance. For beauty, once lost, cannot be built again by human hands.

The ancients would have understood this tension well. When the philosopher Plato spoke of the “ideal forms,” he warned that beauty in the material world was a reflection of divine order, and to destroy that order was to turn the soul away from truth. Likewise, when the Romans tamed rivers, built aqueducts, and expanded their empire across the known world, they too faced the question of how much of nature should be conquered. History tells us that the decline of their civilization began not from lack of strength, but from disconnection — a loss of harmony between their creations and the natural laws that sustained them. And so, the lesson returns to us, renewed: that the earth is not merely a resource to be used, but a living temple to be honored.

Yet, there is also irony in Trump’s lament. The windmill, once a humble servant of man, was never an enemy of beauty in the old world. For centuries, it stood as a symbol of industry and grace — its sails turning slowly in the breeze, grinding grain and pumping water. Even the poet Cervantes, in his tale of Don Quixote, chose the windmill as the emblem of humanity’s eternal misunderstanding — a thing both real and symbolic, both foe and illusion. To some, the windmill was progress; to others, it was folly. And perhaps this is the essence of Trump’s quote: that every age must choose what it calls ruin and what it calls renewal, and that in this choice lies the destiny of nations.

If one strips away the political fire and personal interest, Trump’s warning becomes a meditation on stewardship — on the responsibility each generation bears to preserve the world’s beauty while pursuing its advancement. The countryside he mourns is not merely land, but memory — a remembrance of simplicity, of open skies and rolling hills unbroken by metal and motion. Such places feed the human spirit as surely as bread feeds the body. To lose them, he implies, is to lose a piece of what makes life worth living. Whether one speaks of the Scottish highlands or the plains of any other nation, the message remains: we must be builders who also guard what is sacred.

So, my child, let this be the lesson: in the pursuit of progress, do not become blind to the cost. Let your inventions serve life, not overshadow it. When you shape the land, do so with reverence; when you use the wind, do not still the song of the hills. Remember that the earth does not belong to us — we belong to it. The task of the wise is not to halt change, but to guide it gently, as a shepherd guides his flock, ensuring that beauty and innovation walk together.

For as Donald Trump reminds us, though in a voice some find harsh and others defiant, every civilization faces a moment when it must decide what kind of world it wishes to leave behind. Will we cover the face of the earth with our inventions, or will we find the balance that lets both nature and progress thrive? The answer lies not in windmills or wealth, but in wisdom — the ancient art of remembering that the greatest power humanity holds is not to conquer the world, but to honor it.