The gurgling of a brook, the call of the sea gulls, the tick of our grandfather clock: these are the noises that most bring back our home in Scotland. The crackling of a fire, embers falling like whispers through the grate, the trolley rattling over the floor boards and lumping over the carpet, the clink of tea cups. I see the drawing room glowing with warmth and light, the curvaceous desk, waiting for its writer, table lights soft and welcoming. My family is cupped in feather cushions, lights across the Clyde sparkle orange in the night, the silhouette of trees bend gently in dark sky. Roses frame the windows and we breathe in the musky air of ages past. This is home. This was home.