My clothes were wet through and I was cold, and, wishing for
shelter and a bite of food, I turned across the heath to Jack
Paterson's croft. I opened the door of the little cottage without
knocking, and found Jack and his wife Jean at home, with their
family of six waiting for their midday meal. Hilda, the eldest
girl, was arranging some wooden dishes on the table ready for the
potatoes.
Poor as the place was, I received a true and simple welcome, and I
was glad of the shelter and the warmth, for the wind was whistling
round the eaves and the heavy rain pelting against the little
window.
Jack Paterson was a poor crofter, who added to his scanty means by
going to the deep-sea fishing, or, out of the fishing season, by
burning kelp. These occupations, combined with the produce of his
croft, made up, I am afraid, a very poor living. The cottage was
small, so small that I always wondered how so large a family could
live in its one little room with any comfort. In the middle of the
clay floor, on a stone slab, was a large peat fire, the smoke of
which escaped by a hole in the roof, where the rain came through.
By the side of the fire were two large high-backed chairs entirely
wisped round with straw, so that none of the framework could be
seen. In a great three-legged pot, which hung over the flaming
peats by a chain from the bare rafters, some potatoes were boiling,
and whilst they were cooking Jean Paterson cleaned and fried some
of my fish, which came, I think, as a welcome addition to the
family's meal.
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