I am walking through mists and memory.
It is early Saturday morning and I walk through the grey, wraiths of cloud.
November is a month of remembrance. Remembrance of war and its terrible losses and of my Father landing in D-Day and of my mother serving in the British Auxiliary Territorial Service.
Remembrance of our youngest brother, Timothy, born November 22nd, who died almost seven years ago.
I am caught by a bird call, I stop and look to the trunk of the tree just inches from me. A white-breasted nuthatch sits and talks at me, pivots its head to look at me.
Banff is a long way from family and friends and Banff is closer to Timothy.
I walk and walk.