Highland cabin.

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The cabin that my brother owns here in the Scottish Highlands, and its location, are well worth a mention. Towards the end of a hot afternoon we sat on the veranda looking down the lough towards the sea. All was quiet except for the occasional breath of air rustling the trees and the many layers of birdsong. The lough shimmered in the light from the hot sun before it plunged into the sea, dragging with it all the orange and green light of the western sky. So we retreated indoors and lit a log fire and read for quite a while. I’m reading a French detective novel which has references to several towns that we have visited this week, all connected to oysters. And I discovered that not far away, further up the hillside, another cabin of similar style to my brother’s but in better condition, is for sale. It’s on the market for £160,000, and if it weren’t for certain practical considerations we would happily sell our own house in a not so nice town in Ireland and move here. The picture is of the cabin for sale and not a very adequate one. It has three bedrooms and all the necessary etceteras. Why is life complicated? Or why do I make it complicated?