February

February here is the month when nobody comes. Not because of the weather — though the weather doesn't help — but because there's nothing to come for. The shows are finished, the lambing hasn't started, and the tourists who drive through in summer are somewhere warm. The road past the farm can go three weeks without a car I know.

I don't mind it. That's the honest answer, and I know it sounds like something a person says when they're trying to convince themselves, but I've lived here thirty-two years and I've had thirty-two Februaries and I've never once wished I was somewhere else during them. There's a particular quality to the light at four in the afternoon in February that I can't describe except to say it makes the hill look like it's thinking.

My daughter Sarah calls from Edinburgh every Sunday and always asks if I'm alright, meaning am I lonely, and I always say yes, meaning yes I'm alright. We're talking about different things and we both know it.

Read in the app, leave a resonance, discover more stories.