the end of time. But she has learnt to face that aloneness from the start, she has grown up with it, so that she knows
it’s not a fearful thing. It will never become a bogy, to be dodged, but is already a companion she can walk with hand in hand. She has always had to do the last bit of the road from school
on her own, along the track through the heather. Sometimes, if the day is really bad, we have hurried to meet her, for she still seems such a minute scrap of humanity, set against the vastnesses of
hill and sky. But not once have we found her in the least disconcerted by snow, gale or thunder. She plods along, with a twinkle in her eye, taking whatever comes.
All in all, by the end of that second summer, we felt that our plan for Helen was working out better than we hoped.
CHAPTER IX
AN IMPROMPTU HOLIDAY
T HE combination of hay-harvesting (comparatively easy though this had been) and house-painting, interspersed with pig-chasing left us, we had to admit,
a little jaded, and the really big task of the year—the harvesting of the corn—was still to come. Everything was under control; the potatoes were in full bloom, the new pigs still at
the amenable stage, the pullets settled in their deep-litter. Suddenly, simultaneously into our two minds, leapt the idea that a little holiday, just a long week-end, would be wonderful! We still
had Billy. We might not have him another year, but for the moment we had him. We had never had the slightest qualm about leaving him in full charge when we had had to be away for a whole day at the
market. He was as honest as daylight and well used to looking after himself.
Surely we could leave him to cope for the week-end? we asked ourselves. It was really more of a statement than a query and within twenty-four hours our minds were made up.
There is never any wondering with us what form a brief holiday shall take. We simply bundle ourselves, some bedding and some food into the old van and are off. That is half the joy of it,
really, the knowledge that you can, within a matter of minutes, almost (though not quite!) as birds take wing, be on your way. There is no wearisome planning and contriving and agonising over
expense. The van is there, we have to eat wherever we are, and a few gallons of petrol can’t break the bank.
We decided to leave on the Friday and to be back by the following Tuesday afternoon. I unearthed the two inflatable rubber mattresses, an old cot mattress of Helen’s and the warm
sleeping-bags. I packed three biscuit tins with food, filled an egg-box, gathered an assortment of plates, cups, knives and forks, bathing suits, old rubber shoes, extra garments, the bivouac, a
book or two and the camera, into a kit-bag, and we were ready for the road.
Where to go is never any problem; the west is in our blood and we simply gravitate towards it, as the birds migrate with the sun. Billy was most helpful and quite entered into the spirit of the
thing. He even gave the van a clean-up and stuck a bit of canvas over a leaky portion of the roof, then he filled an extra can with petrol and stood by to give us rather a wondering farewell wave.
Perhaps he doubted whether he’d ever see us all alive again.
It was drizzling, and certainly rather chilly, as we crawled up the ‘overside’. We turned our heads at the top of the rise and glanced back at our little fields of ripening corn and
potatoes and roots. The sheep and cattle looked small, defenceless dots in the distance. We felt a little guilty about leaving these well-loved tyrants of ours, even for a few days,
but—‘Ach, everything will be all right without us’, we said, to ease our minds, and we chugged slowly north and west.
We went through Beauly, Muir of Ord and Garve—pleasant places all of them, but just a little tame. Then we swung on to the moor road and we knew we were really on our way. There was a grey
mist over the hills and the burn was foaming amber after the rain. With every mile the
it’s not a fearful thing. It will never become a bogy, to be dodged, but is already a companion she can walk with hand in hand. She has always had to do the last bit of the road from school
on her own, along the track through the heather. Sometimes, if the day is really bad, we have hurried to meet her, for she still seems such a minute scrap of humanity, set against the vastnesses of
hill and sky. But not once have we found her in the least disconcerted by snow, gale or thunder. She plods along, with a twinkle in her eye, taking whatever comes.
All in all, by the end of that second summer, we felt that our plan for Helen was working out better than we hoped.
CHAPTER IX
AN IMPROMPTU HOLIDAY
T HE combination of hay-harvesting (comparatively easy though this had been) and house-painting, interspersed with pig-chasing left us, we had to admit,
a little jaded, and the really big task of the year—the harvesting of the corn—was still to come. Everything was under control; the potatoes were in full bloom, the new pigs still at
the amenable stage, the pullets settled in their deep-litter. Suddenly, simultaneously into our two minds, leapt the idea that a little holiday, just a long week-end, would be wonderful! We still
had Billy. We might not have him another year, but for the moment we had him. We had never had the slightest qualm about leaving him in full charge when we had had to be away for a whole day at the
market. He was as honest as daylight and well used to looking after himself.
Surely we could leave him to cope for the week-end? we asked ourselves. It was really more of a statement than a query and within twenty-four hours our minds were made up.
There is never any wondering with us what form a brief holiday shall take. We simply bundle ourselves, some bedding and some food into the old van and are off. That is half the joy of it,
really, the knowledge that you can, within a matter of minutes, almost (though not quite!) as birds take wing, be on your way. There is no wearisome planning and contriving and agonising over
expense. The van is there, we have to eat wherever we are, and a few gallons of petrol can’t break the bank.
We decided to leave on the Friday and to be back by the following Tuesday afternoon. I unearthed the two inflatable rubber mattresses, an old cot mattress of Helen’s and the warm
sleeping-bags. I packed three biscuit tins with food, filled an egg-box, gathered an assortment of plates, cups, knives and forks, bathing suits, old rubber shoes, extra garments, the bivouac, a
book or two and the camera, into a kit-bag, and we were ready for the road.
Where to go is never any problem; the west is in our blood and we simply gravitate towards it, as the birds migrate with the sun. Billy was most helpful and quite entered into the spirit of the
thing. He even gave the van a clean-up and stuck a bit of canvas over a leaky portion of the roof, then he filled an extra can with petrol and stood by to give us rather a wondering farewell wave.
Perhaps he doubted whether he’d ever see us all alive again.
It was drizzling, and certainly rather chilly, as we crawled up the ‘overside’. We turned our heads at the top of the rise and glanced back at our little fields of ripening corn and
potatoes and roots. The sheep and cattle looked small, defenceless dots in the distance. We felt a little guilty about leaving these well-loved tyrants of ours, even for a few days,
but—‘Ach, everything will be all right without us’, we said, to ease our minds, and we chugged slowly north and west.
We went through Beauly, Muir of Ord and Garve—pleasant places all of them, but just a little tame. Then we swung on to the moor road and we knew we were really on our way. There was a grey
mist over the hills and the burn was foaming amber after the rain. With every mile the
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