Memories are made of this

Coming off the hill exhausted, the cabin finally came into view. The vision of its bright red timber beneath the corrugated roof brought warmth back into my soul, if not my fingers.

We were staying in a fishing lodge hidden in the Scottish hills, only accessible via hours of winding forestry tracks and unpenetrated by phone signal of any type. It was a time capsule unchanged for 200 years, unburdened by the modern world hidden from its view.

Behind the screeching midge-proof shutter, my eyes adjusted to the dim gas lighting. I shed my wet layers and hunched down in a crusty old armchair glowing with the light of the stove. Warming up, I gazed around at the cobwebbed taxidermy and wondrous black-and-white