I stared out the window of the train, watching the blurred green landscape rush by as we sped through the countryside. It had been a long journey but I was finally on my way to visit my grandmother’s remote cottage in the Scottish highlands, a place that held many happy childhood memories for me. As the train pulled into the tiny rural station, the familiar sights and smells took me back to summers past – the cozy thatched roofs of the cottages, the swaying heather dotted with purple blooms, the fresh clean air that smelled of peat and pine.
I hailed the only taxi at the station, a rusty old Land Rover, and gave the driver grandmother’s address. As we wound our way up the single track road, the mountains seemed to get taller and more dramatic, the valleys deeper and rockier. Finally we turned down a bumpy worn path and arrived at the cottage, a low stone building with a slate roof and windows framed with cheerful crimson flowers. I paid the taxi and retrieved my small suitcase from the boot, breathing in the pure mountain air deeply as I took in the beauty of my surroundings.
The heavy wooden door creaked open before I could knock. “Flora! Welcome home lass,” beamed my grandmother, embracing me warmly. Though nearly eighty, Gran still had a youthful glow about her, along with a head of thick silver curls and bright eyes that sparkled with wisdom and mischief. Her warmth and energy filled every corner of the little cottage, banishing any gloom. We chatted over tea and shortbread as I told her about my journey and life in the city. Gran regaled me with tales of village gossip and filled me in on the latest news about the other families who lived nearby up in these remote highland hills.
Over the next few days I fell back into the peaceful rhythms of country life. In the mornings I’d help Gran tend to her hens and goat, collect eggs and milk, then weed and water her vegetable patch. Afternoons were spent hiking the hills, swimming in secret lochs surrounded by reeds and water lilies, or picnicking in forests of pine and birch. Some evenings we’d visit with Gran’s neighbors, playing cards or telling stories by the community hall’s peat fire. Other nights we’d stargaze from Gran’s rowboat as she pointed out constellations and told me Celtic myths and legends about the creatures that lived among the stars.
One misty gray morning I awoke to the patter of raindrops on the slate roof and windows running with rivulets of water. Gran came into my bedroom with two mugs of cocoa. “Looks like it’s a day for baking and tales by the fire my dear. Would you like to help me make shortbread?” we spent the morning rolling, cutting and baking biscuits while Gran shared colorful anecdotes about life in the village when she was young. After lunch the rain eased to a soft drizzle so we bundled up for a walk through the woods to gather mushrooms and berries, spotting signs of deer and fox along the forest trails.
That evening as we sat warming ourselves by the peat fire, Gran noticed me gazing thoughtfully into the flickering orange flames. “What is it lass? You seem lost in deep thought,” she asked softly. I told her about my life in the city, my job that was slowly draining my soul, and my longing to escape it all and find more meaningful work close to nature. Gran listened patiently, her eyes kind. “My dear, you must follow your heart. It sounds like the highlands are calling you home once more. Why not accept that calling and stay here with me awhile, help with chores and sell your baked goods at the market? The villagers would enjoy your sweets I’m sure. Give city life a rest and see how you like country living before deciding your path.”
And so I did stay, leaving my city job and apartment behind to live simply at Gran’s cottage surrounded by hills, streams and forests. Trading stressful meetings and traffic jams for baking, gardening, and long walks under endless starry skies, I found a peace and purpose I never knew existed. The villagers welcomed me warmly and my baking proved popular at the weekly market. As the seasons changed, my heart grew fonder still for this special place. Perhaps, I thought watching a herd of highland cattle graze as the sun rose golden over purple heather, perhaps the highlands could be my home after all.