The Moray Firth

Yesterday I drove my mother and the dogs down to the Moray shore where an abandoned road runs a mile beside the firth towards Inverness. It was chilly and calm; easy to hear the cries of waders, quieter at high tide. We recalled things that happened, especially Christmas 1952 at my aunt's home, Fasnakyle, far up Glen Affric, Cannich children laughing fit to die at the Chaplin films she'd shown on a specially hired projector, and the head gillie come as Father Christmas with presents in a great sack for everyone, and snow on snow, overflowing the banks of the Beauly, running black and deep beside the house.