I remember my grandmother telling me bedtime stories about her father, my great-grandfather, whom I never met. The stories were uncanny, almost magical, enchanted. In them, the unreal became the ordinary and the ordinary was filled with riddles were dreams and beliefs mixed with reality. As I grew up the stories were becoming more real for me each time I went to stay in my great-grandfather’s old highland-style hut. There the stories were told again and again and each time they revived in my imagination. They were an intrinsic part of my childhood and they are still within me. They inspire and they want to be heard again.