I Remember, Anita I REMEMBER, ANITA, when I first saw you. The cosy, cossetted Scottish village of Aberfoyle; the wild cragginess of the mountains round, and the little humanity of the hotel, sitting like a stone in its mountain setting. I remember the long, solitary walks, the heather stringy springy soil; the swish of the tree-branches as they whispered in soft harmony to the sound of the riffling breezes. I remember the tiny fluorescence of occasional blossom.
And I remember you.
I first saw you in the bar of the hotel—the Wee Noggin Bar, as it had been rather cloyingly named—sitting amidst the red warmth in solitary sadness amongst a group of people. It was the quality of aloneness in you that first attracted me. I remember your light grey dress, the single string of your necklace, the delicacy of your hand as it rested on the glass table-top. I remember your large eyes, and your arched nostrils. I remember the slimness of your figure as you sat in graceful isolation among your friends. Your age had left its mark on your features, but it was a mark of maturity; you were probably more beautiful than you had been fifteen years ago. And yet you still had the grace of youth, and the vibrance of young life as well.
. . .
