Never is anything so mundane as on returning from the mountains.

Never is the sky so grey nor the land so flat.

Work doesn’t interest me. The dull documents and dull conversations I’m putting off. I’ve voluntarily shackled myself to this slow, safe life but the siren song of freedom pulls my attention to faraway, intangible landscapes. Imagine emancipation from expectations. Imagine aspirational certainty.

Perhaps the taste I had was too much. All I can think of is deep glens, ancient forests and mysterious peaks. I’m captivated and cursed by the bewitching majesty of a place remembered.

The sky tries pathetically to rain but gives up. It can’t be bothered either. It would have rained properly up there, savage, relentless and certain.

The sun tries to penetrate the cloud but can’t. It can’t be bothered either. There’s not much to look at down here anyway.

It’s too warm for February.

—

Time stopped for two weeks and waited for our return. I wish it hadn’t.

Working from home is deafeningly quiet. I wasn’t productive this morning, I just moped.

Amber asked for a walk at lunchtime as she always does. I took her. The path was muddier than before and nature seemed colourless. The road was too loud. I had to fabricate a smile for other dog walkers.

Things that should have brightened my mood only accentuated my absurd misery. Amber’s usually contagious happiness, the warm breeze, the abundant birdsong.

My despondence peaked when I walked over the bridge and looked for the trout who sits there waiting for me and Amber. He wasn’t there. Perhaps he thought I’d abandoned him.

—

Ryan’s text was a subtle turning point. There was a Twix next to the handbrake if I needed cheering up. I did, but the thought was enough. I’ll save the Twix for later as a reward for finishing work, although I’ll need to start first.

Crocuses, snowdrops and daffodils – nice, but it’s too early. Crows, collared doves, a robin, a blackbird, a dunnock. They’re okay.

I see the allotments and look forward to the house we’re buying. A glimmer, small but bright. Once that’s done we can go back to Scotland. I hope time hurries up for a while, then slows again.

I try to get over myself and decide to write down my gloom in the hope of some relief. I think it’s worked, a bit. My walk is over.

Later we need to empty the van and tackle the torrent of admin.

Now I need to do some work.

—

Acceptance is better than denial but worse than contentment. That’ll do me for now. The mountains will still be there.