I always thought I was a country bumpkin. I spent my childhood cycling to a local river to go swimming in a tshirt and gym shoes. I could be found in wellies more often than not and thought nothing of walking the six miles uphill to my friend Catherine's house.
Then I lived in cities and became one of those London dickheads: "Ooh yah, you just have to get out of the city sometimes dahling. The countryside is so nourishing for the soul." I still spot those types, head-to-toe in Barbour but not wanting to get any of it dirty.
I thought I was a country bumpkin, that is, until I met Mike. Like Dwight Schrute in The Office, he thinks we could do with a new plague. "Cities are smelly and dirty. There are too many people and it amplifies my loneliness." He's scared of traffic. He'd never seen a Pret-a-Manger before.
He happily follows me down to Glasgow or Edinburgh when required, but he's never really present when we're there. He fidgets and stares at everyone and you can tell that in his mind, he's on his mountain bike somewhere.
It's started to rub off on me. When I'm gone, I can't wait to get home again. And who can blame me, with these views and a pub lunch to come back to.