Phil Scott - The House Above The Loch

The morning came across the heather with a little mist along the hill, and the old stone house was waking though the windows all were still. I had left my Barbour by the doorway, mud upon the boots beside the fire, and the dogs were waiting in the passage for the sound of my old Land Rover. There was frost upon the garden, white beneath the cedar trees, and somewhere down beyond the meadow came the sound of distant sheep. I walked down towards the stables with my hands inside my coat, while the keeper crossed the paddock and nodded as I passed him on the road. And the house stood above the loch, with the morning turning gold, and I thought of all the years that a country house can hold. Through the heather, through the rain, through the seasons coming round, there are places in this country where a man can still be found. At eleven we had luncheon in the little room beside the hall, with the old black clock above us and the portraits on the wall. Someone mentioned London briefly, someone spoke of buying land, then the conversation wandered to the weather in the north. I looked across the table at the hands of an old friend, and remembered how we'd hunted through these fields when we were men. In the afternoon the clouds came, dark above the distant hill, and the keeper brought the horses while the whole estate grew still. I rode beyond the river where the birch trees met the road, and the wind came down from Cairngorm like a story someone told. And the house stood above the loch, with the evening drawing near, and the smoke rose from the chimneys like it had for many years. Through the heather, through the rain, through the winter coming round, there are places in this country where a man can still be found. By the time I reached the house the lamps were burning low, and the kitchen smelled of woodsmoke from the fire below. I left my coat beside the doorway, hung my hat upon the peg, and stood a while beside the window watching darkness cross the fields. There are roads I have forgotten, there are names I never knew, there are cities I have lived in that no longer feel quite true. But here the old house keeps its silence, and the loch remains below, and tomorrow I'll be riding where the winter heather grows. So let London keep its traffic, let the bright hotels remain, I'll take the old road through the valley and come home through the rain. And the house stands above the loch, when the last light leaves the hill, and the fire is burning softly while the countryside is still. Through the heather, through the rain, through the years that come and go, there are places in this country that a man will always know.