Over the hill

All the things you probably hate about travelling – the recycled air, the artificial lighting, the digital juice dispensers, the cheap sushi – are warm reminders that I’m home.

It's six in the morning, or eleven, or somewhere in between. The Atlantic is beneath me. In front of me is a fruit salad, some pinkish yoghurt, a bread roll and a cheese omelette with potatoes. I didn't have the pasta they offered five hours ago, so I eat it all up. The elderly Americans next to me are not impressed with the food. Never mind - we land in Amsterdam in about an hour.

In Edinburgh, I stand forlornly at the baggage carousel. My bag, apparently, is still in Atlanta. I shrug on my rucsac and head for home. Indirectly.

Airport bus to WestEnd (Lothian Regional Transport); 101 (Stagecoach) to Biggar; 91 to Broughton (BARC). Through ticketing? You must be joking.

The car is at the garage, keys on the tyre, bill on the passenger seat.

There's no one at home. Megan - Durban, Claire - Kinghorn, Angus - Innerleithen. I feed the chooks, water the tunnel and head over the hill to Bill's.

He's just in from another day building his new residence - a late finish. He reheats last night's curry and we pass a pleasant couple of hours, jawing over a bottle of red.