Jonathan. My Dad died in April. It was not a surprise – in fact it was what he wanted. Quite simply, he’d had enough, and he refused food, drink and medication as long as was necessary. Mentally, there was nothing wrong with him – other than a sticky memory key. That was easy to work around: I’d press my own MR key and on we would go. But – and forgive the shift of metaphors – there’d been a series of physical problems over the past twenty years or so, increasingly with the exhaust manifold, and you know how it is, if you leave that kind of thing, they’re difficult to fix, and the spares just aren’t available, and all you end up with is bodges and breakdowns. It wouldn’t be so bad if you could get yourself out of the garage and out on the open road ; but you’ve been there, you’ve seen it, and reading the book is just not the same. There comes a time when it’s just not worth filling up the tank any more. My Dad and I had a difficult relationship. He was a man of fixed and immoderate views, intolerant, and with a quick – often violent – temper. Mum got the worst of it, both mentally and physically – but we all suffered, myself and my two sisters. It’s the psychologial scars that cut deepest and are least likely to heal over. … Though we shared many characteristics – both physically and in personality – Dad and I were very different where it mattered most – in values and aspirations. Dad’s expectations of us were measured in terms of income and authority – ie one’s job: he seemed unable to comprehend, let alone understand and respect – a life framed by other goals, other definitions of ‘success’ or what constitutes a life well lived. After Mum died a few years ago, I found it easier to limit our increasingly irregular phone conversations to safe subjects ; and chief amongst these would be exploring the many and varied districts of Britain, whether camping, or with a motorhome, or (as we did for many years) by canal and river, and more recently, by Google Earth and Wikipedia. For if there is one thread that runs through the whole of my life, from my earliest recollections to my still-lingering hopes for the future, a thread that starts with my Dad and continues with my own two daughters, Rebecca and Catherine, it is that thread that runs up mountain tracks, along old Roman Roads, over styles, through tunnels, into old industrial wastlands … until, whether carried by tide or temptation, we have explored every hidden corner and far-flung place that is or might possibly be. For that spirit of adventure we share: Thanks, Dad.
Jonathan: Ten years ago, right now, we were busying ourselves amongst a multitude of boxes, scattered around the house, that together contained all our wordly goods. It had been a bright, cold day – just like today – and as the sun sank into the Atlantic, the house returned to the profound cold of a house that has been left empty and unloved for a long time. The previous owner – as a gesture of courtesy or generosity completely at odds with his behaviour towards us otherwise – had left some wood and coal for the wood-burning stove: I set about lighting that as Denise found the box she’d organized with all we’d need for our first meal at our new house. We’d left our old house in south-west Shropshire two days before, Denise and I, Lady, Molly and Meg (our Jack Russel Terrier and two cats, only Molly now being still with us) in the old motorhome (now also gone). The first night on the road we camped on the shores of Loch Lomond; the second was spent just down the road from here on a triangle of grass between the road and the sea. The removal took longer and was more expensive than our move in 1993 from Dalbeattie (in south-west Scotland) to Ochsenfurt in Bavaria. And emotionally this was a much more significant move: our move to Germany (and all that arose from that, even after our return two years later) taught us much about who we were not ; whereas this move was our final attempt – after so many moves of home and work – to find the place and opportunity to develop our interests, our personalities, our values and our practical skills. In short: our last-ditch attempt to live life the way we wanted to! We knew it wouldn’t achieve our goals instantaneously, and that there would have to be compromises (it’s the lack of realism that results in so many incomers returning to their old lives within a year or two). I recall having laid down a time-frame of five years to have a small business which was established and growing, and ten years until we were free of dependence on mainland income. Thinking about this now – for the first time for a number of years – I realize that we did indeed achieve those goals, though perhaps not quite as we’d imagined. In fact we now have a number of business activities, ranging from crofting and cottage industry to professional practice, all of which are important to our domestic economy. Whilst engineering and construction remain the principal source of income, that has over time – and without much in the way of nudging or steering on our part – shifted from straightforward bum-on-seat contract work, entirely away from home, to specialist designer – much in demand for major infrastructure projects across the UK and Ireland, to general civil-engineering consultancy, and now as project manager employed by private clients for their house-building projects throughout the Outer Hebrides. But today, through a conversation on the Sound of Harris ferry with someone who moved here a few months after us, I am reminded that establishing a local income is only one side of the equation, and morevoer was never the real driver for moving here in the first place: we could have done all that where we were before. Though the work is challenging and satisfying, building houses for other people is not actually what I want to do with my life. For one thing it would be good to have the time to complete the renovation of our own house, which after ten years is still in a state of disarray! It would be good to have the time to more fully enjoy the fruits (and the veg!) of our labours in the garden and on the croft (actually I’d love to have more time to spend on gardening, alongside Denise), or to have a little time to do anything or even nothing, just as we please. Like many of the fruit bushes and trees we’ve planted in this garden, we’ve thrown out roots and branches in the intersts of establishing ourselves, but some of which, through the weather and seasons have become tangled and unproductive. Winter task: sharpen and oil the garden tools: now where did I put those pruning shears?