Roses, compass and hourglass on an upper arm

The hut at Caddon Pass still has Father's compass nailed above the stove, though the needle has stuck since the February frost and now points more towards the kettle than north. I went up on Sunday with the mule man, Ewan, who swore the track was clear. It was clear enough once we had dug the drifts off the last switchback with a shovel and a bad temper.

Inside I found the hourglass. You will remember it, the brass frame gone green at the joints and sand the colour of weak tea. Someone had turned it over and left it running, which is either a joke or a prayer, and the sand had long since settled into the lower bulb. I sat on the bench and watched nothing happen for a quarter of an hour, which is more than I have managed in this house since Mother went.

The roses were the other surprise. Along the windowsill, in a jam jar, someone had put three sprigs of rosehip and a single white bloom that had frozen and thawed into something like paper. I do not know who keeps flowers at a pass where nobody lives, but I left them alone. I took only the compass, which I now think Father never meant us to keep. He used to say a compass shows you where you are not, which is only useful if you know where you ought to be.

Ewan says the hut will be buried by March, and I have decided to let it be. Come up in the summer, when the pass is green and the sand can run its full course, and bring the good map. We will find the spot together and turn the glass over ourselves. Love, Nell