My humble brick house boasted three rooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom, offering solace far from the bustling road. But the exact location hardly matters, for this is a tale of a river—its flow could be anywhere, touching anyone.
The cottage, typical of those scattered across Scotland and beyond, presented a modest charm with its whitewashed exterior and black slate roof. Behind it, a small garden bordered by a stone dyke sloped down to the river Lussa, originating from a distant loch in the hills. At the front, the cottage door opened onto a narrow road beside a quaint humpbacked bridge over the river.
Once the abode of a river bailiff, its days of official duty had long passed, replaced by the hum of hydroelectric power upstream and the bustle of salmon netting downstream. Lucky enough to acquire it, I adorned the front with flower baskets to break the monotony of white walls, while the garden bloomed with abundance.
Installing a gate in the dyke allowed easier access to the river, a decision driven by my evening strolls along its banks, finding solace in its soothing murmurs. Despite the demanding work in Campbeltown, the nightly ritual became a cherished respite.
In the tranquility of the river's embrace, I found peace, whether gazing into its depths or lounging on the grass during warmer months. Yet, the fishing season disrupted this tranquility, inundating the banks with eager anglers, prompting me to blend in by acquiring a fishing rod and even catching a sea trout, though my intention was never culinary.
To mitigate curiosity, I welcomed a canine companion—a half-breed border collie and German shepherd—who not only provided company but also served as a convenient excuse for my riverside excursions. Through rain or shine, she remained a steadfast ally, enriching my connection to the flowing waters, a bond cherished beyond words.
I desired to construct the gate because I relished my evening walks along the riverbank, finding solace in the gentle flow of water and the serenity it provided. Working in Campbeltown, the only town for miles around, meant my days were demanding, making these moments of relaxation all the more precious.
Nightly, I embarked on these excursions, often pausing to gaze into the river's depths or reclining on the grass to bask in the soothing symphony of nature. In winter, the harsh weather limited my time by the river, while in summer, save for the bustling fishing season, I could linger for hours undisturbed, lamenting the intrusion of anglers whose chatter disrupted my solitude.
Initially regarded as an outsider, I endeavored to assimilate by acquiring a fishing rod, eventually earning acceptance among the fishing community. Though my catches were rare, they afforded me a sense of belonging, even if my attempts at catch-and-release were occasionally thwarted.
While I appreciated the occasional trout meal, my true motivation for fishing was the opportunity it afforded me to commune with the river uninterrupted. In spring and autumn, my nightly outings went largely unnoticed until I welcomed a canine companion—a half-breed border collie and German shepherd—who not only provided an excuse for my walks but also became a cherished ally, transforming what began as mere pretext into a profound bond of companionship.
