I leave the front door and start a match with the elements. The air is a frozen veil that whips your face and screams in your ears. Rain lashes your skin and soaks your clothes. The earth is soddened and sucks at your boots, forcing you to engage in a tug-of-war. Despite our endless game, which often leaves me crabbit and cold, a flare of fondness burns inside me for this place.
The village is a bundle of houses that I can see from my doorstep, nestled between the mountains and the beach. In the foreground are the fields which accommodate my neighbours, the Highland cows and sheep. They aren’t the most talkative but that suits me fine – neither am I. We glance at each other as I walk through the trails which their hooves have carved into the grass. My hands reach for the gate, and I secure it behind me. The sheep continue to chew cud, either oblivious or accepting of their confinement.
The other houses are spread between acres of turf. An occasional car rattles down a driveway, the only reminder of human life. With the nearest supermarket being a forty minute drive away, anyone would assume this area is uneventful and quiet, but communities contain more than just people.
A group of crows squawk on a pylon wire. One spreads his wings from his silver breast, pushes back his talons, and sails into the air. The others follow his lead and caw as they pass my head, as if berating me for disturbing their meeting.
A rabbit freezes when she spots me, twitches her nose and then bounds along the ground, in search of her burrow.
Local cats prowl amongst the pasture. I often spot one with his belly scraping against the grass and bottom high in the air, wiggling in a motion that leads to an ambush. A mouse will squeal and wrestle for life as it becomes speared by the claws of the predator.
During the evening, when walking by the fir trees, I may be lucky enough to see a bat flittering about as he listens for a meal. I sometimes stand and watch as he swoops by my scalp. If the midges are out in force, then I’ll leave him to dine on his feast.
My house is a white cottage with smoke often billowing out of the chimney. The boarders of the garden are adorned with flowerbeds; they are kept clear of weeds so the privileged plants may thrive. The pathway to the door is a different matter – grass latches against the stone and seeps through the cracks. On a day of drizzle, there is sometimes a toad lingering amongst the overgrow.
Today the sky is clouded and grey but during the summer, it is painted with violet, crimson and cadmium yellow which merges into orange. On a clear night, the sky is bedazzled by the Queen of Ethiopia and the Hunter. Not even a streetlamp competes with their sparkle.
The human population that exists here becomes sparser and older each year. When the children come of age, they leave for cities and chase paper instead of leaves. I’ve been asked whether I’ll venture to a concrete jungle too, but I prefer the starlight to any urban skyline.