To me, at least, the Highlands dishes up its treats in small portions.
“For centuries we have prized the same prejudices”, the vicar of an isolated Warwickshire village told H. V. Morton in 1926, “and we have grown up as naturally as my currant bushes out there. We were, you see, locked up here together with our fields and our imaginations.”
Wildcat and pine marten roam the forests; hawthorn and rosebay willowherb choke the country pathways. Fox and falcon flourish, flocks of rooks darken the fields, and beaver build in the upland waterways.
There is more than one way to lose yourself in a forest. Keeping still – “as still and quiet as a tree” – will do the job as surely as stumbling mapless into the wild, to judge from Sooyong Park’s deceptively intense account of filming endangered Amur tigers in south-eastern Siberia.
Carys Bray was born into a strict Mormon family in Southport, Merseyside. Her keenly anticipated first novel, A Song For Issy Bradley, tells the story of a Mormon family struggling to come to terms with the death of their youngest daughter, Issy.
The moorhen had tried again. My passing-by startled her out of her nest – a cup at the foot of a stand of fading yellow flag irises, not two metres from the lakeshore. Before I made an apologetic retreat, I took note of a single soft-spotted pale egg resting in the hollow. All being well, another five or six would follow.
Sympathetic ear or religious recruiter – what’s a prison chaplain for?
It’s hard to imagine anyone less obviously in tune with the spirit of the scandalous Renaissance priest François Rabelais than William Heath Robinson.
A goalie’s decisions are based on a welter of variables: what’s the surface like, who’s the attacker, where are my defenders and – not least – is this going to hurt?