The road up to Gavin’s house winds through pine forest so deep I squint to make out the way after the brightness of the drive along the lochside. Tarmac becomes a gravel track, crosses a cattle grid and zigzags up through the trees before opening out onto the moor. Huddled beneath a stand of oak,
A story for Ieva We move in right before new year. Glasgow, Scotland, as the Americans say. Top-floor flat. Cold, bare, tall ceilings. I am used to terraced houses in a way I don’t quite understand, and the tenements impress me. They are surprisingly solid, hard – like the first time you punch someone’s face.