It's 9 years I've been here now.
I miss it all the time. That will never go away.
But this is my home. Everything I ever dreamed of: a real man who would marry me and want to have children, a family, came true in Scotland. I owe her much.
And here, now. Well, this is not Edinburgh. This is the real thing. Our children are a throwback.
My husband works with the area's old. They volunteer to teach me and my children to spin, to knit, to weave, to sew. For free. For the joy of it. Come sit with us next Monday. We will show you.
Our children sing in Gaelic. They know one another, no, they know. They grow up with people they have always known, really known.
There are runrig lottings here again. They have been introduced by our duke on his lands. We have applied for one. It is so popular, there is a waiting list.
I cannot put a price on such things, for such a price we cannot afford. We have not the skills. If we had, we would not be here.
But if I were sitting in London, which I consider nothing but a hole except for the rich, well, if you said Alberta or here it would be no contest, for even that a runrig holder is a vassal to his landlord, and his graft is very, very hard, he is not a slave to that which is that place.
The time has come again when tenants need the protection this landlord's money and position can give, and what does that say to a wretch like me?
To tell my children time and again to flee. They can live otherwise, both in EU and N. America. They can take their spouse with them. Such is their right.
To go where they feel free.
I don't know where this will be. Perhaps it will be Australia or New Zealand.
I don't know.
Maybe I will not have the means, then, to know even my own grandchildren, God be that I were blessed with them.
But I would die happy even so.
Most of the time, I think, this is no place for a young person to grow up or be, and yet, it made the dream of them possible.
If I were you, would I were you, I'd go.
I don't know how else to put it.