A Silent Companion

I was sitting on our favourite bench along the path to the north of Golspie, shortly before it reaches Dunrobin Castle, when an elderly, very neatly-dressed gentleman approached and sat on an adjoining bench. Where he sat was less than five metres from me yet he avoided eye or any other form of contact.

At first I resented his intrusion then, as the minutes passed, I minded less and less. Our mutual silence was almost companionable.

After sitting silently for about ten minutes he rose and set off back the way he had come.

I've met him on the track before and on those occasions he did respond to my face-to-face greeting, perhaps a 'Hello!", yet the moment he did so, he looked away, as if he had engaged as much as he wanted.

I think I know why he appears so unfriendly: he may be deaf. One of the many problems of dealing with deafness is what you do when people you don't know speak to you. They expect a coherent response but very often you can't give it because you haven't understood them.

It makes for a desperately lonely and, at times, embarrassing existence - but then, that's what comes with deafness. It's as if a barrier has risen between you and the rest of humanity. There has been great progress in hearing aid technology, but it still cannot overcome the handicap.

It's not only humanity he can't hear. I was sitting listening to the wash of the waves, the calls of curlew, oystercatcher and redshank, and the whisper of the wind in the grass. He couldn't hear any of these sounds, couldn't allow them to give him the sort of peace of mind they offer me.

It must be like being locked in an invisible cell.