Clouds are already on the ridge when you set out, and the road is single-track with sheep on it. They look at you. You wait. Sixty-six watercolor-inspired illustrations run from the far ridge to the fire: heather and peat, a stag on a rock deciding you're not worth the worry, a stone dyke climbing straight into the cloud, a roofless croft that is somebody else's patience left standing.

Then the door shuts and the scale collapses. Boots on flagstones. Socks drying on a sill. A kettle going on the stove and a jam jar of heather given the entire frame. Cold makes a fire mean something, and a big country makes a small room feel like a kindness.