Do you remember? I don't suppose you do. You were still a toddler when we moved away. Maybe there's a flicker or two somewhere in your memory though, for we walked that path almost every day in the summer, when the shop was open at the caravan site. That's probably why I remember it as always sunny, though it can't possibly have been, with the sea on one side and the mountains behind. Not to mention the whisky in the rucksack and his addiction to go home to…
Do you remember the steep bit down to the burn, where the red-spotted cockchafers flapped around the bedstraws? We spent ages there, you, me and D, finding the biggest stones we could lift and hurling them in for the splash. Then on across the slithery duckboard, the air richly aniseed from the meadowsweet in the ditch.
Uphill from there. There were always rabbits scratching and startling on the sandy slope. It steepened as we went, and the house was out of sight until we topped the rise. D and I called it the Not-Far-Now, faint encouragement as I hauled the heavy bag. It was worth it though, to come out into the kind of glorious meadow people dream about nowadays. We treasured it even then, rich in orchids and vetches, threaded with butterflies, ringing with skylarks and wheatears, magic from May to September.
Through the gate. The narrow muddy path between the crofts; then the short step along the tarmac, and down the stony drive to the cottage cooried under the hill. Whisky to send him to sleep, we hoped; fresh milk and biscuits for you and D. Looking back from the house, hardly any of the path could be seen, down in the dip between us and the site.
Maybe you don't remember it at all, but always remember this: it was full of beauty. Condemnation and misery waited at both ends (and I hope you don't remember those), but the track itself was wonderful, twenty minutes of tiny adventure, safely hidden from them all. And in the end, he broke free of the whisky and we found a better way altogether.
You're almost a man now, and you've your own road to find. I pray you'll stay safe, you'll find your own freedom, you'll be kind and be loved. I hope the track ahead will be studded with beauty, and your memory will fill to the brim with tiny, joyful adventures of your own.