PART ONE
…written as we slowly plod south.
It is lashing with rain. Mark is driving, and I have got bored with trying to hear the story over the exciting rattle and the roar of the engine, so I thought I might take a few minutes to write to you.
Autumn is here, certainly in Scotland. The rowan trees are heavy with berries and the trees are slowly becoming burnished with gold. We slept last night on a windswept heath, the sort where Macbeth might have hurtled past brandishing a bloody dagger, but if he did he was quiet about it, and apart from the wind there was silence. The wind was quite exciting enough for anybody, and the camper van rocked us into sleep, with a steady swaying rhythm interspersed by occasional violent attempts to tip us out of bed.
We did not set off in any kind of hurry this morning, although when we talked to people on the phone we assured them all that we were doing. Instead we packed slowly, and then took the dogs off for a walk through the masses of heather.
The wind carried great heavy wafts of the blossom scent until we felt drenched by it. The dogs bounced over the springy tufts, and we ambled along contentedly, breathing the blossom-thickened air and exclaiming over unfamiliar lichens, and contemplating the occasional brown pools of acid peat.
In the end we had to go, and fortified by great slabs of dark salty chocolate and a basket of grapes, we chugged down the mountain, with the story playing to drown out the rattle.
Mark said that he had put plenty of grease on this and it would probably be fine, although it made people stare at us when we drove through villages,
We were distracted by rows of deer heads and skins hanging outside a little shop at the bottom of the mountainside, and so we stopped to look. Of course this turned out to be the least financially astute move we have made for ages.
We did not purchase a stuffed deer, massively tempted as we were, but we did buy a beautiful woollen shawl and a new belt, and drifted out feeling absolutely joyous at our extravagance and ownership of genuine Scottish souvenirs.
Obviously we wasted even more time then, poking around the village and thinking how much we approved of some of the architecture. Attached is a picture of a bridge which even the economical Scots have decided not to use any more.
We strolled about contentedly, reviving the same old fantasy about sloping off to live in some deserted village somewhere in the nineteen forties, but of course we didn’t. We climbed back into the van and set off back along the long road home.
PART TWO
We are home now, and instead of rattling about Scotland I am sitting in the silence of my office. I can hear the clock ticking and the dogs snoring, but no scary potential-breakdown rattle. After the noisy adventure of the outside world it is a relief to be quiet.
Of course we did not just come home and ease ourselves peacefully into the tranquil silence of our lives. We met Pepper on the road as we were turning into the alley, and she belted towards us at top speed, towing her misfortunate owner in her wake. This was good timing, as it turned out, because it was just as the wiring under the dashboard caught fire, what brilliant good fortune that it had lasted so long.
Mark says he is going to do something about this. It gets very hot when you put the headlights on. We are used to it now, but really I think it is time for some modification. Maybe next week.
Obviously we had to let the dogs get re-acquainted then, because they have missed one another terribly. I mentioned pepper by accident yesterday, in the sense of getting it down off the shelf and sprinkling it on your dinner. All the same, Roger Poopy leapt to his feet and bounded towards the door, scanning the distant horizon in an agony of disappointed hopefulness.
We hurled everything out of the camper van and abandoned it in our chilly dark kitchen, after which we collapsed in the Peppers’ warm living room. The dogs rolled in a melee of fur and claws on the floor, and we drank wine and told travellers’ tales.
In the end we had to come home.
We are longing for bed now. We are tidying up and making everywhere tidy for morning, and then the day will be over.
It is wonderful to be back.
It is terribly quiet without a boy.
