Andrew Rae

Today I said to myself that I would rest completely, do absolutely nothing. It reminded me of the great actor (always known simply as Ian) whom I once met in his dressing room at the National Theatre, taken there by a mutual friend. We reached it through a strange, ugly concrete labyrinth which echoed, as he remarked rather waspishly, with "the cries of failed actors."

Travelling up to London to raise funds for my beloved thousand year old church, I arrived in the city to find myself in a huge, apparently empty, glistening white building, looking down on the ruins of a Roman wall and, amazingly, a wild flower garden. As I waited on the 11th floor I could help myself to coffee and then get out onto a balcony with plenty of greenery.

We arrived in the foothills of the Cairngorm mountains with the newly emerged leaves of the copper beeches in their translucent glory and the birches in their lovely fresh green. There were snow patches on the hills and golden daffodils welcomed us as we passed the mysteriously named Blacklunans hamlet and reached our Norwegian log cabin, ideally built to withstand the hard winters and massive snowfalls. In the first week we recovered from the long drive with magic walks down by the river,...