cloody

....so I'm doing a creative writing course in college. I thought I might as well stick what I do up on my website. That's what it's for I guess. This is the first bit and may or may not get longer.

Not Titled.

I stood on the old bridge, and took a long draw on my cigarette whilst looking down towards a valley being slowly consumed by new houses. They'd appeared over a dozen or so years, but really boomed around 2005 - even our remote part of the country was not immune to economic progress. I'd not necessarily call it all progress, personally, but I suppose that's just me. I can’t argue with the money they bring in, and I suppose in that context a slightly spoiled view of the beach is not such a big deal.

They do bring a strange modernity to the landscape, which for most of my lifetime has been resistant to much in the way of change. From where I stood, I could see right down the valley to the miles of golden beach to the Atlantic meeting the coast - where beyond a handful of small islands break the next stop is the North Pole. As recently as a few years ago, you could follow the river to the sea and see nothing but an imposing Free Church and a clutch of homes, but it's all changing now. Progress. Range Rovers, kids and dogs and bikes and “Oh yes, we love it up here for a holiday but could never live here all year long.”

Many of the crofts that had provided sustenance to previous generations were no longer worked, the younger members of the families having moved south with no thought of returning to their parent's way of life. Why would they? Crofting has never been a business so much as a means to an end, in the old days a lifestyle borne of need rather than any romantic notions of working the land. Most of the locals still in it do so out of tradition, family pride or something like that – and almost to a man they have second jobs working on the roads, in the pub, for the local builder, or whatever is available.

I did my time away from here. I got out, impatient to sample a life not available here. I spent four years at University in Edinburgh, then ten years in London working in finance. Left home in 1993, back in 2009.15 years older, with a slightly weaker accent and a higher hairline. I chucked it all, the high powered job, the flat, the fancy car, even the long term fiancé - it's all gone. Almost on a whim.

I'd inherited the land suddenly. Very suddenly. No warnings, no fanfare and no time to plan. My Uncle Donald and his wife Marge, who'd always been great favourites of mine, had no children. In their will, they'd left their property to me. Not their money, mind, that had gone to a local nursing home. Just the house and the land. I had no idea. My friends and fiancé thought I was having some sort of breakdown when I said I’d be moving back, they really did. I can see why, it all happened so quickly – one day I’m getting off Docklands Light Railway at Canary Wharf, two weeks later I’m looking over my new land thinking about just what the fuck I have done.

They'd been on their way to Inverness, Don and Marge, for a weekender in 'civilization' -  their words, not mine. They'd done it for as long as I could remember, Glasgow, Edinburgh - even London occasionally - but usually Inverness – every couple of months they'd jump in the car and head towards more populated climes. Marge couldn't take the isolation, Donald said, for more than a few weeks at a time. They both liked the theatre, music, cinemas, pubs, clubs, basically I always thought they were living in the wrong place. The arrangement seemed to suit them though.

A guy driving a fish lorry from Wick came through a roundabout north of Inverness, without checking to his right. He'd been on the 'phone apparently. They never stood a chance. Bang. The lorry driver was completely unscathed, but the two in the Fiesta were killed outright.

The driver is due to be sentenced shortly – to be honest I feel sorry for him, too. As the closest relative I've written a letter to the court asking for leniency, although whether that will do any good I don’t know. He shouldn't have been talking on a mobile, but we've all done it. He's hardly a cold blooded murderer. Frankly, I cannot see that sticking him in Porterfield for two years will do anybody any good. I know a couple of folk from Wick, and they tell me this guy is nothing more than a hard working long distance driver who takes the fish from Scrabster to the continent. He has two daughters in primary school, and hasn't worked since the accident. That’s punishment enough, surely.