My mother’s away, so the mice will play.

She has gone up to the wild surf-lashed Scottish coast, somewhere opposite the isle of Mull, to visit someone who has not even had a bit-part in these posts, until now.

He is her youngest son, and my brother: Peter.

More of him anon.

As befits any daughter, what I have not said about my mother is a lot. I imagine regulars can probably hear the silent paragraphs echoing draughtily throughout the rooms of my blog, full of words not written.

The main reason is that I am not relishing my mother’s face when I compare her to a big beefy mythical Greek bloke.

Because like that titan of yore, Atlas, my mother holds up the heavens.

Her job is not a glamorous one. The heavens take quite a bit of holding, as you can imagine. Beneath her arms the charismatic members of her family are rendered free of responsibilities, charming proverbial birds out of trees and attracting admiration and attention.

And above, she shoulders, and watches, indulgently.

But it would seem her vocation is to know the heavy weight of all of our responsibilities and carry them, with virtually no recognition of the ponderous task she is performing. This she does with quite breathtaking wisdom and clarity of thought.

She is not here this week, but like any good Atlas, she leaves a jolly solid structure in place, while she shifts emphasis to hold up Scottish skies.

We in Britain have a saying, which stands out in bass-relief on a day like this, the eleventh day of the eleventh month: she’s the sort of person you’d want next to you in the trenches.

And now to her host. Peter is my youngest brother. He is the one I used to tell tales on, when we were both small. He was, and is, impish, but now he is a grown man.

He and my sister had a wonderful game when we were young. I was too grown up to appreciate it. The two ‘little ones’ would be put to bed at a sensible time, and everyone else would go downstairs. But Pete and Libby were not the sort to drop off when there was a party to be had.

They invented a game. It was called The Sock Line. This is because when you played it, you had to have your sock half pulled off so that it dangled off the end of your foot.

Their bedrooms were at polar opposite ends of a long landing. The game involved chasing one another from one bedroom to the other, without incurring my father’s wrath. First person to get floppy-end-of-sock over the carpet join was the winner.

This merry, ingenious attitude to life sums up my quicksilver sibling. He has considerable talents in many directions. He is qualified in two languages and business studies, and has latterly found his way into counselling. He is a hard-line surfer, and these days he even teaches the sport.

My sister and I became used to our friends swooning over his easy-going charm and ready wit, but when he finally fell in love it was with someone different. It was never anything but an absorbing love match.

He and his wife were happily settled in a southern city when they became captivated by Scotland.

From there it was a couple of years and a stone’s throw to Eutopia. One day they were combing the west coast for surfing beaches and they came upon an old fisherman’s cottage with a  ‘for sale’ sign outside. It is inches from the sea.

They didn’t hesitate. With typical risky bravery they bought this little haven, far from the madding crowd.

They have a surfcam there. Any time of the day or night, you can watch my brother’s stunning view, check the surf or just yearn inwardly.

And there, as I type, sit my mother and father, in a little holiday let my brother and his wife have renovated. It is good to chase your dreams, whatever the cost.

Between my mother and Peter there is a very special bond.

It has always been there, as long as I can remember, and it does not detract from my mother’s relationship with the rest of us.

But these two finish each others’ sentences. They have a special telegraph system, a kind of telepathy which renders language simply another plaything between them. There is something so similar about them that one can feel each one relax in the other’s presence.

It’s a mother and son thing, I think.

My son and I seem to have a similar telepathy. For me, Felix represents the chance to stop striving, and just be.

He is as dear as Maddie to me, no more, no less: really, it is like trying to compare a pearl with a meteor, because each has their own stunning individuality.

But when I sit with Felix we have common ground. We are both insular and obsessive; we are both hot tempered and outspoken; we both turn a phrase to catch a meaning; we are cheese and cheese.

Thus, it is like sitting there with an affable and pragmatic Oneself, holding a conversation about anything and nothing.

Remembrance Day, here in Britain, is still significant. We remember the cost of defending this little island. We hold two minutes silence and stand, still and quiet, even if we have just arrived at the supermarket checkout.

Shakespeare has a phrase: Every mother’s son.

And when the world stood still today, remembering the casualties of war for two short minutes, I found myself one with all those other mothers, long years ago during the Second World War.

Once again, Atlas seemed to cut a powerful figure in the shadows.

Our sons and daughters will have the privilege of growing up and meeting their lives head-on: because those sons shouldered an impossible responsibility, cutting their time short. Like Atlas, they held up the sky.

It will always need scaffolding.  Humans are so frail. May we all develop broad shoulders.