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Ever since the day the construction crew showed up and started carving our driveway out of the hillside, I’ve felt this strange sense of peace. Standing at the bottom of the hill, looking up through the trees, you can just make out a sliver of horizon—usually blue sky with a cloud or two peeking over the ridge like nosy neighbors. What you can’t see is that at the top of the ridge sits our barn, and just west of that, our little TRR cottage.
For the longest time, I couldn’t quite explain why that view tugged at me. It’s just a winding, tree-lined path. Sure, in autumn it explodes into a photo-op of oranges, reds, and yellows, and now and then it wears a soft coat of snow that could make a postcard jealous. Still, pretty as it is, I couldn’t figure out why it felt so…familiar.
Then, recently, I was fiddling with Google Maps to retrace a route we’d taken on a trip to the Scottish Highlands. It had been one of those hair-raising single-track roads—the kind where you’re halfway up an incline and suddenly see a full-size RV barreling down toward you. You very quickly come to the understanding that your survival depends entirely on your ability to reverse in a straight line. We’d stopped several times along that road to soak up the peace, beauty, and the smug satisfaction of still being alive.
Every time I moved that little gold man from Google Street View down that narrow lane in Scotland, I was transported back to when we pulled over under the Scots pines, the air sharp with their scent, the world hushed but for the wind and our own nervous laughter.
That’s when I realized it: every time I enter my driveway, I’m stepping back into Scotland —minus the airfare, jet lag, and rain. No wonder I park at the bottom some days and just sit there. I’m not stalling—I’m taking the scenic route home…100 yards at a time.