‘Dinnae forget, in the morning, t’gae oot an’ and wash yer face … in the dew,’ my Scottish grandmother says from her Parker Knoll. I set a lukewarm milky tea down on the small round table beside her.

‘I got you some shortbread,’ I say.

She stares at me, nodding her head, as if agreeing. I look hard, but she’s gone. She doesn’t know who I am. A whole sentence, but she’s sunk back inside herself. I press the biscuit into her fingers.

‘Shortbread, Nan.’

She looks at the biscuit in her hand and takes a bite. It’s a mystery how she can forget who I am but can remember it’s the first of May tomorrow.

I start to tidy away the laundry, putting away the nightdresses and the thermal vests, along with the vast white knickers, elastic escaping where the lace is tacked on.

‘First light, mind,’ she says, crumbs of sugar falling from her lips, her eyes focusing on the past, orbs of cloudy blue.

She must be mad. Just because she tramped up Arthur’s Seat in her youth with every other Edinburgh lass hoping to scoop up some magic with the morning dew, something that would bring beauty, luck and if luck would have it a husband.

‘I’m not interested in all that, Nan,’ I say. Though I’ll be up early in the morning to take the dog out for a quick run round Campbell Park before work.

There is a clash of striking china. Nan’s cup has hit the rim of the plate for her biscuit and sent a splash of tea over her sleeve.

‘It’s a gift from nature and woudnae do you ony harm,’ Nan says, as I find some kitchen paper and mop her up.

*

I do go to the park in the morning, following the paths between the planting: the cherries are over, the hawthorn is just opening. The dog runs ahead, scampering back, then he’s off again. As I come out of the trees and across the lawns the Light Pyramid beckons, a beacon glowing on the hill. I climb up the steepness, the dog, ears flapping, bounding around me. At the top I turn and turn, a child again taking in the land stretching out around me.

It is one of those beautiful clear days when the sky is pearly but promises blue. The pale moon is transparent, fading, and the trees are a mist of new green. The pyramid glows silver in the first light. Standing beside the hard modernity of the sculpture, radiant as though it has just landed like a space rocket from the future, I look out at the soft, undulating, boundless view. A land with deep roots and much history.

As the sun rises burning of any lingering haze, I bend and brush my hand over the grass at my feet and place my damp palm on my cheek and think of the day ahead.