Dad wakes me with a whisper and a touch. The house is still dark and silent. I feel for my clothes on the floor, and pull them twistedly on. Down the stairs without avoiding the habitual creaks of talkative ash steps.

“Are you ready?” he whispers.

I’m lacing shoes, but nod. His keys rattle and the door thuds open.

The roads from Peebles to Moffat are laced with rivers wraithed with mist in the half-light. The waking world sings silently. As the car slowly warms, I’m in a dream, in wonder. I hardly knew this half of the day exists.

It’s a long and winding road.

We pull off onto a track that extends, unwaveringly straight, out onto the moors. Dad slows the pace, easing over ruts and potholes. At the white caravan, his student’s girlfriend offers hot coffee and divine tablet.