The light heats to gold, cools to gray. We leave the house once S is asleep and make for the Back Shore. We go past the maltings, and linger at the Point. The harbour is quiet, though sometimes a seal bobs in the water. The wind at the Firth is so fierce it leaves my eyes watering. The lit windows in the lanes reveal flickering televisions. We go home and plunder the whisky cabinet, assemble cheddar on oat cakes, then read.
The infinite Scottish summer evenings have left me very tranquil. Next: a report from Edinburgh.