Old Neily was sat by the fire in a rocking chair. His wife was gazing out of the small window into the mist.
Before there were proper tracks you couldn’t even get a tractor up the hills, Neily said. When the mist came down you were so soon lost. The trick was to follow a burn downwards, keeping it by your side. But now there are cars everywhere and nobody walks any more.
He sighed and looked at his son, who had hung his head. The fire crackled.
We’ve kept you here too long, said Neily. It’s time you went.
MW Bewick 