Robert

I meet Robert at sunrise as he emerges from the bus at Montgarrie. He is wearing his usual brown suit, shirt, and tie. He has a hat but there is no sign of a coat, despite the morning chill. He has often said to me, ‘I don’t like coats. I prefer warm underwear. Don’t worry about me!’

I can see at once that his brows are knitted – there is something on his mind, something that is bothering him. I wish him a good day. It is no surprise to me when the only answer I get from him is ‘Shall we walk?’

He sets off at his usual rapid pace. Although he is over 70 years of age and has been suffering for a long time from some kind of schizophrenia (the physicians are keeping a close eye on him), he is as fit as a fiddle physically.

I walk silently beside him, waiting until his mood improves. A walk in the country will help him – the best thing to bring him tranquillity of mind. He will come round before too long.

It is the steep road up to the summit of the Suie Hill that we take. The sun is splitting the rocks – the perspiration is pouring off me with the effort! The view from the top of the hill is beautiful: in front of us, the fields and woods are stretched out across Strathbogie towards the conical sandstone hill, the Tap o Noth; thirty miles to the west are the broad shoulders of Ben Rinnes in Strathspey; far away to the north there are a few small green hills, the Bin of Buchan amongst them.

Robert is strolling along slowly now, taking pleasure in everything laid out before him. ‘Now this is the landscape that would have inspired me to write in days gone by,’ he says. Although there is not smiling yet, the relief in his voice is obvious.

Before we proceed down the steep road to the north of the hill, Robert takes hold of my arm. ‘Just look at that line of oak trees,’ he says, pointing to it with a finger. ‘Have you ever seen anything finer?’

The oak trees are indeed attractive. They were probably sown intentionally in the nineteenth century as a boundary between two meadows. The line, slightly curved on the side of a green slope, is casting a dense shadow on the grass. Robert walks slowly again, keeping his eyes fixed on the trees as the perspective changes. But soon we reach a bend in the road and, two hundred further yards along, the gates of Knockespock estate. We catch a glimpse of the three little lakes in the wood glittering in the sunshine.

I ask him if he has ever seen inside the great old house.

‘No, I haven’t,’ he replies, ‘but I have often seen it from the outside. That’ s enough for me. I leave the rest to my imagination.’

He thinks about this.

‘Isn’t it good that so many things remain somewhat mysterious to us? As if we can only see them dimly reflected in glass. And isn’t it outrageous, nowadays, that some people can’t leave anything at peace without scrutinising it, analysing it and turning it into a list of numbers?’

Our walk is taking us towards the village of Clatt. ‘I’m not being flippant,’ he says, continuing with the same subject. ‘There’s a general principle here, isn’t there? Don’t we have enough faith to live with a little uncertainty? Isn’t there proof, on the one hand, and faith on the other? And we need faith for the deepest things in life – faith in love, for example! I’d say that the most precious things can’t be proved by science or by reason – they are above and beyond science and reason. And, thank goodness, we continue to believe in them without certainty, without proof.’

At Clatt, Robert chooses the road to Rhynie, the route that will take us past the gates of Druminnor Castle. There is a nice little park in Rhynie and at midday we are sitting on a bench there looking at the War Memorial and the impressive stone sculpture that crowns it.

‘Was that enough for you?’ Robert asks. ‘Or shall we go on to look at the ruins of St Mary’s at Auchindoir?’

I nod my head. Although my legs are tired, I do not want to disappoint him when he is in such a fine mood.

After climbing uphill for a while, we descend the road that loops under the shade of birch trees towards Auchindoir. Before we reach our destination, however, he suddenly says, as if the thought has just come to him, ‘I’ve been mulling over why I didn’t succeed as a writer.’

This is not fair at all, but he continues, ‘In my opinion, there was too much autobiography, too much personal material in my writing – although it was cloaked in the guise of fiction, as you’d understand. I have to face the fact that people aren’t interested in a writer’s private world.

‘Anyway, it’s time to hear the voices of the younger writers now. It’s quiet I need, and that’s what I have at long last. I’m pleased to be withdrawing from the world.’

The ruins of St Mary’s Church stand before us now. The peace inside the ancient walls is profound – Robert goes around the graveyard lost in his own thoughts.

But these thoughts, whatever they were, have restored vitality to him. ‘Would you believe that I’m hungry?’ he says.

By a stroke of good fortune, a bus has appeared on the main road, a bus that will take us through the Don valley to Alford.

In the Bistro in this little town, Robert eats everything that the waitress puts on the table, not to mention a glass or two of red wine. At the end of it all we are both satisfied but, even so, the bill is small. I add a generous tip.

Now it is time to stand at the bus stop – Robert must return to the city.

‘Hasn’t this been an exceptionally fine day?’ he asks. ‘It has given me such a lift.’ I am surprised by the strength of emotion in his voice.

After a little while, the bus appears. He shakes my hand with a grip stronger than his usual.

‘There’s to be good weather this coming week,’ I say. ‘Why don’t you come back?’

A woman of about my own age comes off the bus. She looks at me briefly with sympathy written on her face – by all appearances, I am standing alone on the pavement talking to myself.

With a squeal, the doors of the bus are being closed before it leaves.

In the twilight, I take the road home.

(Thanks to Dr Jake King for his advice about place-names.)