"I wonder who'll come to first-foot us, Murdoch?" Iain Lancer said as the clock approached midnight.
"It wouldn't be any use me going out first-footing," laughed his grandson.
"True enough," answered Iain, looking at the young man. "Fair hair, blue eyes, and built like a Viking, too – you're a throwback to the Norsemen, lad."
"That's a long way back. Through the Normans. It's seven hundred and fifty years since Gilbert De Lancier came to Scotland," said Murdoch.
"Aye, and that was a good few years after he'd left Normandy with Duke William." Iain started once again on the story he'd so often told to young Murdoch, but which never grew stale to the grandson who shared his love of the past and admiration for that courageous distant ancestor.

"It was William Rufus who sent some of his Norman knights to Scotland to put Duncan on the throne. When Gilbert De Lancier stood on Druim Deas and looked at the country spreading out across the swale, with the mountains behind, he thought it was the most beautiful place in the whole wide world. That evening he went to King Duncan and told him that was the land he wanted for his services."
"And he met Elspeth Murdoch at the king's court that same night," grinned the younger Lancer.
"That's right, and married her the next day. The land he loved and the woman he loved – Sir Gilbert was well rewarded for his long journey and hard fighting."
"It's not such a long journey," said Murdoch, "only from northern France."
"It was back then," said his grandfather. "Travel was a lot slower and harder, remember. A journey from Normandy to Scotland in those days was like a journey from Scotland to America now."

The older man bent over with a fit of coughing. When it had eased, he leaned back in his chair, lines of weariness on his face.
"You should go to bed, Grandfather," said Murdoch.
"No, I'll stay up. I won't see another Hogmanay – and don't start in with the 'you shouldn't talk like that'," Iain Lancer added as his grandson made to interrupt. "We both know it's so and after all, I'm luckier than many. I'll get to see out my days in my own country."
Murdoch knew what he meant. Whole families, whole villages, had left Scotland, faced with no choice when their farms and crofts were given over to sheep-raising by their landlords.

"Not that America is such a bad place, perhaps," Iain went on, following his own thoughts in the way of the elderly. "When he came back from the war in '82, my brother said it looked like fine country. And at least they won't have to watch their land being ruined."
"Ruined how? You mean through so many people being turned out of their homes?"
"No – though that's bad enough. No, it's the sheep that will destroy it; the sheep that are replacing the Highland cattle that have always been here."
"But why? It doesn't make any difference whether it's sheep or cattle grazing on the land, does it?" queried the young man.
"Yes, it does, Murdoch. When cattle graze, they eat the top of the grass and it grows back again. When sheep graze, they take the roots of the grass out of the soil and before it can grow back, the heather takes over."
Murdoch was still puzzled.
"But there's heather all over the hills. It does no harm, and it's beautiful when it's in bloom."
Iain snorted.
"That's what the Sassenach visitors all say – look at the pretty heather. But neither cattle nor sheep can eat heather. It's all over the hills now, you're right, but it wasn't that way when I was your age. The hills were all good green grass then. The landlords are fools to bring in animals that don't belong here. One day, there'll be nothing left but heather, and man and beast will starve. I'm thankful I won't be around to see it." He stopped, and smiled at the young man who was his last close kin. "I'm going on and on, aren't I, Murdoch? And Lancers don't even own Sir Gilbert's land any more, not since the '45. But it's true I don't want to stay much longer and watch things get worse and worse, until everything I've held dear is gone. You remember that when the time comes, and don't mourn me."

There was a knock at the door. Murdoch opened it and a dark-haired, dark-eyed man stepped into the room.
"Bliadhna Mhath Ùr, A'Chàirdean!" He gave the New Year greeting in the Gaelic of tradition.
"Happy New Year, Niall!" Iain answered as the first visitor of the year walked across to the fireplace to leave the customary piece of shortbread on the mantel, a symbol of plenty for the household in the coming year.
"Happy New Year!" Murdoch's words were spoken as he poured three drams. The men raised their glasses to each other and drank. Niall set down his glass as soon as he had finished.
"I must be on the move. I've got two more houses to first-foot."
"Tonight's your busy night, with that dark hair of yours," said Iain.
Niall laughed.
"That's what comes of having a Spanish mother. I'm glad my father brought back a bride when he went to the Peninsula Wars. It gets me three or four drams every Hogmanay!" He waved as he left on his round.

"Now, you get off to bed, Grandfather!"
"All right, Murdo lad, but pour me one more dram first. I'll drink to your New Year."
"And I to yours."
Iain's gaze drifted away, as if looking into the distance.
"No, not mine, I think. Just yours."

As the sun rose on the first day of 1842, Murdoch went to see if his grandfather was awake, but Iain Lancer was sleeping the sleep of eternity, his final Hogmanay behind him.

LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL

After the funeral, Murdoch walked along Druim Deas and looked out over the countryside that Gilbert De Lancier had gazed at all those centuries ago, after the journey that for him had been as long as a journey from Scotland to America would be now. The 19th century descendant of the Norman knight stood for a minute or two and watched as the flocks of sheep grazed between the stretches of beautiful, ruinous heather. Then he turned and walked back down the slope of the ridge, towards the Inverness road.