It was his mother who had suggested he should come on this particular writing course. She had seen an article on ‘Life Enhancing Vacations in Beautiful Places’ in the glossy supplement of her Sunday paper and Glendrochatt had been one of the four venues suggested. There had been a walking week in Andalusia combined with bird watching; a painting holiday in Greece tutored by a well-known artist; a music and meditation course in Wales offering such enticements as spiritual detoxification and energy realignment . . . and the creative writing week in Scotland. ‘Make use of your leisure to renew your creative vision,’ the writer of the article had urged piously. ‘Come home refreshed in body and spirit, with a new skill and a new perspective on life.’

‘That’s what you should do,’ his mother had said with conviction. ‘Go on a writing course. Remember all those essay prizes at school? Remember the excitement when you started to get a few poems accepted when you were up at Oxford? The writing bug has never really gone away, has it? We always thought you’d go into journalism before you got so smitten with the City. Now you’ve been given an opportunity to re-evaluate your whole existence and the time and chance to pursue a completely new direction.’

He’d raised an eyebrow at her. ‘Oh, is that what this is all about? A great new chance for me?’ he’d asked mockingly.

‘Yes,’ she’d answered. ‘At least, that’s exactly what it could be – if you choose to let it.’

‘I see. Someone else’s appalling bad luck turned into my good luck? Seems a bit unfair on them, to put it mildly.’

‘Better than wasting a chance! Better than wallowing! You can’t alter what’s happened so you must make your own luck now,’ she’d said fiercely. He could see she was on the edge of tears, and it was so unlike her to be critical – she who had been his staunch supporter through everything – that he’d felt ashamed. He thought with a pang that she’d got to look much older recently.

‘I’m sorry.’ He put his arm round her thin, stooped shoulders and gave her a hug. Then he said teasingly. ‘Poor old Mum! Casting your pearls of advice before swine as always! But I expect you’re right – you usually are. Give me the article then. I won’t promise to go, but I’ll promise to read it.’