Over there the willow. Down the path the stream, gurgling and chuckling. White flint-rocks in its midst. Uphill three old yew trees, enormous trunks,older than anyone of us. The house old and splendid, white framed windows, creaking old doors, the staircase enormous, the view reaches far, wide is the land, the hills hide the sea, but the seagulls are impossible not to be heard. Sheep on both sides of the road, but bearing in mind always the willow, old and with long, curved branches swinging in the wind like manifold arms, deep down, hidden in the Scottish countryside, beyond the steady roads and tracks, at the end of the world, somewhere between Aberdeen and Dundee, the Northern winds blow here, blow strong, they know how to stay here. and yet even here, even here behind all the thorny hedges and the stone walls, even here so far up north, you can not escape the war, this German war, they call in my profession the Second World War and here, in the house at the sideboard when you open the creaking door with its golden handle, you can not avoid the war, you look into the face of a young man, twenty-five or twenty-seven, no age for a life, who got killed, shot maybe and died in Tuscany, never came back so far up north and father got at some day, an envelope with a letter that the son would never return to the willow, the yew trees, the stream, gurgling and chuckling, would never play cricket again and never lay dreaming in the park. The father left his house and his home, moving away from the willow, the stream, the park that became unbearable. but still today, the scars are the same, the same as the old willow, over there, deep down in the countryside, hidden and easy not to see. Nearly invisible, but still not gone, like a stain, nearly invisible, but only nearly and no stain remover,no rubbing, no rinsing lets the stain disappear.