Every evening when I am out running after I go home from work I meet a man on a bicycle.
He is usually going in the opposite direction to me as he is heading down towards the village of Broadford, and I am heading home. We always exchange waves or nods and recognise one another.
He cycles an old-fashioned bicycle, not a trendy modern one, and wears rough, working man’s clothing covered by a luminous warning vest.
He wears an old trousers and proper working boots, and he looks like a farm labourer straight out of a Thomas Hardy or Charles Dickens novel.
And I presume he is an agricultural labourer working somewhere in the parish.
But I would love to know. Just curiosity, I suppose, but I would love to know where he works and what he does.
Often, however, I am reminded how lucky I am to work in relative comfort.