The Cabin

On Christmas night I slept in my cabin in Highland Perthshire. This tiny wooden shed is where a whole number of my books have been written: my most recent novel, 2020, due to be published by Saraband here in Scotland in the spring, was written by hand in just four weeks within its walls. My short story The Ice, the title story of my collection of short fiction and published also on Smashwords, was written here in sub-zero temperatures. You can see images of the cabin on my website; if you look at the left hand side and the section Kenneth Writing, you can watch my walk in the rain to begin work there. There were no sub-zero temperatures this Christmas night: all across England people were being rescued from their homes because of the floods. But the rain kept me awake all the same, and I woke early, huddled and shivering in my sleeping bag.

Then I thought of the thousands, and the hundreds of thousands, coming into Europe day on day from the south. Most from Syria, having made it in perilous boats from Libya. They come in a seemingly unending stream, this greatest outpouring of people since the Second World War. And among them thousands of children who have no parents at all. And they face many different kinds of cold.

And that led me to thinking about the first Christmas and the whole reason for Christmas, and an awareness of the truth that the man and woman who arrived at the stable were refugees themselves. They were poor and doubtless hungry, and most likely they were shown some pity because of the need of the mother-to-be.

No wish to sound sanctimonious: simply to remember what I do have. Choosing to sleep in my cabin was for fun; a kind of reverting to boyhood and the joy of being able to go out to the garden at night, to see it under the stars. And a reason to say thank you.

www.kennethsteven.co.uk