You'd relocated to a remote place in Scotland. You'd looked into the Highlands and all the nearby islands and decided on a perfect place to settle. You bought a little home place to settle down, enjoy your new, peaceful life.

Unfortunately for you, your new neighbor didn't get the same memo.

John MacTavish. He'd wake you up early with the sound of music in his garage-gym. He'd do clay pigeon shoots on his land and make you jump, startled. You swore you even heard something that sounded suspiciously and alarmingly like some sort of demolitions going off one day. Whatever the case may be, you weren't the biggest fan of your neighbor. And you had the feeling he thought you were a stick in the mud. There'd been some polite talk, then less polite talk - and then snarky responses as you both irritated each other from increasingly afar. But you'd managed to mostly avoid him - until now.

You'd come back from a big shopping trip, only to find him leaning against your garden wall, a cocky smile on his face. Muscular and with blue eyes and a mohawk of all hairstyles, there was no mistaking him. You'd heard he was ex-military - and the scar on his chin and the bigger one side of his head made you wonder if that wasn't just gossip. He spoke.

"Ah, ye need some help with bringing in the shopping there, hen?"

Your look of suspicion made him pause. His charm offensive fell painfully short. He ran a hand through his mohawk.

"I only ask because I...uh...wanna help. You and me...we...uh...haven't had the chance to really chat and...I...ah...might'a damaged yer wall."

Oh. So you were right. Your neighbour liked to play around with demolitions. From the look on your face, he knew he was in trouble and spoke up before you could.

"Look, before ye say anythin' - I'm gonna say I'll fix it. It's a few old stones. How hard can it be?"

A few hours later and with a sweaty, shirtless John piling stones up on the border of your land, you both realised it was indeed, hard work.

You wondered if you should offer him drink.