‘ Mr Angus MacIntyre will not be sending any Christmas cards this year and therefore takes this opportunity to wish all friends and neighbours the compliments of the season. ’

His notice sat below the small ads and above the lost and found column in the Ullapool News. A fortnight ago Angus had dutifully sent off his hand made cards to friends and relatives who lived faraway. He’d drawn a scene in which Santa was being detained under the Terrorism Act. It would probably cause offence to a few, but hey what did they expect he was a political cartoonist.

There’d be no decking the halls with boughs of holly nor stuffing the turkey this year for him.

Each Christmas his grown up children had come with their kids. Four little cousins who fought like they hated one another- hair pulling, tears, broken toys and screams played out in front of a blaring unwatched telly. The women chatted, his son and son-in-law snored on the settee. The aftermath of dirty dishes, ripped paper, dis-emboweled crackers and trifle stained carpets took him into Boxing day.

He’d phoned to say that he’d cancelled Christmas. They’d each expressed surprise and then a little indignation as they felt they were doing their ‘old man’ a favour by coming and letting him watch his grandchildren open their presents. He’d posted off cheques as he didn’t know a Power Ranger from a Play Station and never got a thank you for the presents he bought, so it would save a lot of hassle.

The twenty fifth arrived cold and clear with a smattering of frost. He switched the bedside radio on. Carols rent the air. He switched the radio off, shaved and had a shower.

He cooked a full breakfast and brewed a large pot of coffee, filled a flask, and made sandwiches. The dog at his heels he headed for the hills at the back of the cottage. The ground beneath his feet crunched and squelched as the wetness oozed from the peat and ice. Angus climbed until his legs ached and his breath came out in cloudy gasps. He rested against a boulder and watched a sea eagle riding the thermals. Flossie weaved ahead, tail and nose down following the zig zag trail of a previous traveller. Angus resumed his steep walk until he got to the bottom of the Benn, the landscape dotted with enormous boulders that had washed down after the ice age. These monolithic sculptures reminded him of Callanish where he’d met Sheila his late wife. He sat down on a cold flat rock and ate some sandwiches, drank his coffee. A ruinous settlement clustered together around the rocks, from which it had been built. To the west he looked down at his now tiny house, to the east he looked down into the cavernous hill loch, to the south he could see the Summer Isles and beyond to the curvature of the earth.

He felt like a speck of insignificance in the grand scheme of things, but it didn’t bother him. Marvelling at the unspoilt scenery, the massive landscape, Angus felt wonderfully free and privileged. It reminded him of school days when he and Fatty Patterson would skive off double maths on Friday afternoons and go guddling for trout in the loch.

Flossie barked at Marion and Bruin her Labrador as they came over the rise. He stood up and waved, glad that she’d come. As she neared a Jaguar jet screamed overhead drowning their greetings, causing Angus to curse and both dogs to bark. It was chased by another fighter etching twin white weals into the blue sky. He laid his jacket down on the rock, poured her a coffee, offered a sandwich and placed a small wrapped present in her hand.
‘ What is it?’ she asked.
‘ Open it.’
‘ I thought you weren’t doing Christmas.’
‘ I’m not. It’s a ‘Let’s meet on our rock’, sort of present.’
Marion opened it and took out a shell she’d found on Gruinard beach. She’d presented it to him for being champion sandcastle maker as they’d fooled around under the full moon on mid-summer. He’d set it with semi-precious stones and attached a pin so that it could be worn as a brooch.
‘Thank you. It’s so beautiful. Come to supper. Meet the children. We can’t go on meeting like this, it’s ridiculous.’
‘ Okay. But there’s one condition. First let me show you how to catch a trout.’