I’m running through the damp heather, the muscles in my legs tightening, breath quickening. The air is free of midges. I’m trying to catch up with the moon sinking below the hills of the Black Isle. But halfway across the field, I wake with a start and look around the lounge.

A snap of the fingers and I’m off the sofa and back in the kitchen. It’s time for supper. Cullen skink is ladled into bowls piping hot, chunks of bread, a bit of cheese on a board put on the table. Will they leave some cheese for me. Best to keep out of the way, I wait in the dark kitchen by the range. I wonder if they’ll come in and pat me, tell me I’m getting old.

There’s laughter and the chink of glasses. A whiff of whisky in the air. I think I hear someone call, ‘Lassie.’ I get up to go through, but I might have heard wrong. Sometimes I do. I’ll be a good girl and wait for them to call me again.