It was raining that morning as I walked southwards towards the Glack of Newtyle, a narrow pass through the Sidlaw Hills in eastern Scotland. I hunched my shoulders, slithered on the muddy track and wished for better weather. As well wish for the moon, of course, in a Scottish spring, but I was so concerned with passing the road and the miles to Dundee that I nearly failed to notice the old man who was walking in front, gathering sticks and adding them to the bundle on his back.
“Halloa,” I called to him. “What’s to do?”
The poor old fellow nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of my voice. After he recovered his composure, he turned to face me. “Hello, young lady.” His voice was as cracked and ancient as his face, while he peered at me through narrow eyes.
“That’s a heavy load you
