MY RURAL IDYLL

Alexander McCall Smith gets close to nature as he works

You are fortunate if you can carry your work about with you. I earn my living by writing books, which can be done virtually anywhere, and so for the last ten years I have divided my time between Edinburgh and a remote part of Argyll.

We found a house by a sea loch, with mountains on either side. At high tide the sea almost laps at our front door; when the tide is low there stretches out in front of us a salt marsh. Although technically not machair, the marsh has all the same charm. Shells nestle between blades of salt-resistant grass; in spring tiny flowers, thousands upon thousands of them, make expanses of pink. Canada and greylag geese graze here, rising up in honking alarm if you disturb them by walking down to the water’s edge.

From the desk at which I write, placed before a tall window, I look up at the mountain that starts its sharp ascent half a mile away. When it has rained – as it does just about every day – a high waterfall tumbles down the mountainside, a wind-blown wisp of white. If you step outside, you hear it, along with the sound of the numerous burns that drain our own small patch of land. In certain conditions, a low line of cloud moves slowly across the mountainside, not at its top, but half way up, like a shifting veil of white muslin.

We share this place with many other creatures. Deer are everywhere, and eat almost everything you plant unless you protect it with a high fence. Our vegetable garden is fortified, so that they are obliged to stare longingly at the kale and other temptations we grow on raised beds within. Then, along the shore, otters move about with all the purpose and assurance of creatures who know every inch of the sea shore. From the water, we are watched by seals whose heads suddenly pop up, slick, wide-eyed; curiosity always gets the better of them.

The pine martens come as a surprise to visitors. People who live in towns are accustomed to the urban fox but do not expect to see these small furry mustelids observing them through the conservatory window. Pine martens live in trees and are active at night, so can be quite hard to spot. But when you know their routines they appear as regularly as clockwork, calling to receive the slice of bread and jam you leave out for them. They are omnivorous, but have a markedly sweet tooth. They adore peanut butter.

They like to live in your roof if given the chance. For weeks a family stomped about our attic before we discovered how they were getting in. I made this discovery at 4am, when I went outside and surprised our resident pine marten climbing up a drainpipe before scampering across the slates to nip into an impossibly small hole under an eave. He was gently moved on by a naturalist from the glen. He knows the ways of pine martens and will help us to build a raised box for them to spend the winter in, if they wish.

Time has a different quality here. It moves slowly, and with greater dignity. You learn to wait. Each year you wait for the mackerel to arrive. You will be told that somebody caught them last week, but they always seem to be somewhere else. But, barring disaster, you know they will arrive.

You go to bed. It is very quiet. The sea of the Hebrides moves slowly by.

‘Time has a different quality here. It moves slowly and with greater dignity’