The kettle was whistling. He hadn’t noticed, he was lost in thought, his reverie only broken when Toby placed his heavy head upon his lap. He patted him gently, “Ok boy”. He let the letter fall back onto the paper-strewn dining table before pulling himself stiffly from the hard wooden chair.

Turning off the stove, he poured the boiling water into the flask and placed it in his bag. Toby for his part sat patiently watching his master get ready, a familiar routine. The heavy wax jacket had seen better days as had his tweed flat cap, although tatty they were as comfortable as a second skin.

He threw the bag over his shoulder and grabbed his walking stick from where it hung by the door, “Come on lad”. Toby needed no second invitation. Walking across the yard, his footsteps echoed in the damp air. He stared up into the hills, it was overcast, the tops shrouded in mist. He pulled his cap down a little further and started up the hill.

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