"For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream."
Vincent Van Gogh
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I suppose it must have been the late summer of 1962; Telstar by the Tornadoes had been playing on the radio. I had been spending my entire summer on the idyllic Island of Bute on Scotland’s west coast. We had a cabin sandwiched between Canada Hill and Bogany Farm.
It had no running water or electricity. My job was to go and fill up the water containers from the communal well. Cows would cautiously approach and stare curiously whilst the smaller ones would shuffle through for front-row viewing.
At dusk, we would light paraffin lamps to illuminate the nights. My father would read children’s books. We were all ears as he read Heidi, Tales From 1001 Nights and Chinese Folk Tales. We ate freshly made pancakes with homemade jam and washed down with small glasses of sweet stout.
The lamp caused a sibilant sound as it burned up kerosene. It flickered and fostered sleepiness. It finally slumbered for the evening, and we would retire.
I lay there in my bed watching the stars cascading through the window; every one of them. And I wondered if the Chinese farmer boys, or the Bedouin shepherd boys or the milk maids in the Swiss mountains were seeing and feeling the sense of awe that I felt in my heart as the universe entered in.