When the World Has Become Too Familiar.

This morning I walked Eddie along the lane near the cottage in a thin, persistent mizzle. May, apparently. The Scots have a wonderful word for such days. 'Driech'. North Uist had other ideas. The island had put on its November face: low cloud, wet grass, a pewter sky pressed down over the crofts, the road blackened by rain, the lochans half-erased, the distance withdrawn into itself. Somewhere…