It was the wind that made her realise. Not a sharp gust, but a slow, steady force that gained momentum, pressing like a hand urging her back. At first she pushed on, undaunted and in denial, but eventually even Skye had to admit that the weather was turning.

 

She had planned for everything on this hike: every layer of clothing, every calorie consumed, every contour line. But not this: the sudden swell of storm clouds curling over the Cairngorms, and the rain that lashed her sideways, finding the gaps between waterproof layers.

 

Skye swore to herself and pulled out her map. The bothy was marked there faintly - a detour she’d barely glanced at in planning. She’d hoped to push on another five miles before nightfall. But now, breath ragged and boots squelching, she diverted her course.

 

The bothy wasn’t much to look at. No old moss-rimed stone, like some she’d stayed in. Just a sensible square cabin with a single window, a red-painted door and a little chimney in the corrugated roof. Skye squinted at it through the rain and then, resigned, pushed open the stubborn door and stepped out of the weather.

 

The air of the bothy was cold but still. White-painted walls sprouted wooden beams. A couple of wooden palettes served as beds, and a pair of folding camping chairs faced an old iron hearth, dry logs piled up beside it. A tin mug hung from a nail, and on one of the palettes, folded with curious care, lay a wool blanket.

 

She dropped her rucksack beside it with a sigh, venting irritation as much as relief. This trip was supposed to be a personal best, and she’d been training for months for success. Now all she could do was hunker down and hope that the storm passed swiftly enough for her to recoup some lost time.

 

She set about chipping kindling with the hatchet by the fire. Soon she had a fire dancing in the grate and a faint warmth creeping into the bones of the bothy. Skye’s socks and base layers were already hung over the backs of chairs, drying beside the fire. She pulled on a dry fleece from her pack, then poured hot water into the old tin mug, and stirred in a teaspoon of cocoa powder from a neatly labelled jar: help yourself.

 

She settled herself on the end of one of the hard wooden beds, and pulled the blanket around her shoulders. The wool was thick and dense, surprisingly soft, with earthy browns and beiges woven into a tidy twill. The scent of lanolin lingered faintly, warm and animal and alive.

 

Skye sighed, unable to settle. She should be climbing by now, starting her ascent to the peak. Another one to cross off her list. But instead, she was here. Stopped. Still. Stagnant.

 

With nothing else to occupy her, she picked up the logbook left on the side. The entries reached back nearly a decade. Some written in precise lettering, others barely legible scrawls. There were doodles of stags and midges, poems, weather reports, confessions, gratitude.

​

She flipped through slowly, feeling an unexpected smile tug at her lips.

​

 

“Gran used to bring me here when I was a girl. How she loved these hills! I brought a blanket woven by her. It’s her gift to the hills now. May it warm you too."

— Ellie, 2006

​

 

Skye ran her fingers absently along the edge of the blanket. Someone had carried it here with care, laying fond memories to rest.

​

 

"Lost my partner last year. Walked until I couldn’t anymore. Found this place. Sat with the blanket around my shoulders and felt, for the first time, something like peace."

— David, 2007

​

 

"First week at uni. I hated it. Took the train north and kept walking. Stopped here until I was ready to face it all again. The blanket smells like my old dog back home.”

— C.

​

 

"Walked away from a city job and never looked back. Husband and I restored this place over the course of a summer. Learned woodworking. Learned to breathe. The very best of times!”

— Jess

​

 

Skye closed the book and sat back. Outside, the storm hurled itself against the hills with a relentless drive to match her own. But in here the fire crackled, the cocoa steamed, and the blanket embraced her.

​

 

For the first time in a long while, she let herself do nothing.

 

The storm lasted two days. Skye slept in, made porridge, stoked the fire, and watched the clouds roll like dark waves over the glens. She felt very small in the middle of it all, but somehow that gave her comfort.

​

 

By the third morning, the sky was pale and clear. A shaft of sun cutacross the dew-wet hills. She packed slowly, excited for the next leg of her journey, yet reluctant to leave the stillness behind.

 

Before she closed the logbook, she took the pencil stub from the shelf and wrote:

 

“I came here desperate to move on. I leave thankful for the pause.”

— Skye, 2025

​

 

She shrugged the blanket off her shoulders, folded it neatly, and placed it back on the bed, just as she’d found it. She cleaned out the hearth, swept the floor, and left a sachet of instant porridge by the logbook.

​

 

Then she opened the door to the wild again - this time not to conquer it, but to experience it, in all its storms and stillness.