Page 66 of Riding the High Road

I take a path leading up to the heathland behind and bounce across the mostly dry pinkish bog-moss, clumpy heather and tiny bright ferns. Birds dart everywhere – little chirpy ones jumping out of the heath, others with thin legs and sharp bills, poking at the mud by the stream. Swifts, sparrows and seagulls are about my bird knowledge limit. Karen had a fit of taking me birdwatching before she settled on bowling. But all I can remember was a bunch of baby grouse chicks one day. Funny how little I think of her, considering I owe her my existence. Did she actually force Don to write that letter, the one he gave no thought to?

‘Stop it!’ I shout, leaping through a patch of wet bog. Can I just allow myself to enjoy this? Push through several wet trainer moments before hitting some meadow-land teeming with wildflowers: all splashes of pink, yellow, purple. The tiniest sapphire blue flowers as I climb a hummock, the highpoint of the heath.

The view up here is epic. With my back to the sea the land rises to craggy hillside. Another quarter turn and there’s the heavy-duty mountains the other side of the bay, brooding solid chunks of matter. Turn 180oto face the sea and Skye in the distance; then the last quarter turn to the valley floor dotted with highland cattle and a sprinkle of white houses. Thinking of my phone like charging up in the campsite shop. That 360o photo app would be awesome for this. I’ll have to come back and take the photo and I dunno, stick it on Facebook I guess? Like anyone would be interested. I sit on a rock facing out to sea and watch as Skye disappears behind a smudge of cloud. Suddenly I feel lonely as fuck.

A couple of hours later I’m in the coffee shop at the head of the bay. It’s like a lefty-hippy throw-back, as in dark red and green paintwork; random piles of books about Scottish politics mixed with alternative therapy manuals and local history; posters advertising yet more referendum debates. An overpowering smell of cinnamon.

‘Where do you hail from?’ The woman behind the counter asks, totally cut-glass English sixty-something.

She smiles as I tell her, tossing back her silver bob, like trying to look interested.

‘How about you?’ I add. ‘You don’t sound very Scottish?’

She laughs. ‘No, I haven’t absolutely gone native. But the locals are super welcoming of us retired English ex-pats.’

I nod, wondering how that fits with Don’s world?

I order a latte and a cinnamon scone and sit overlooking the bay. Switch on my newly charged phone. The coffee isn’t exactly as strong as it might be, and the scone is on the heavy side. To top it all my phone has no signal. Not that anyone would be trying to contact me. I sip the coffee and try to wash down the claggy scone.

The hand on my shoulder makes me jump, spitting coffee over the tablecloth.

‘Geth-in!’ I look up to see Dirk the Dutchman. ‘I am right, Geth-in?’

I nod, suppressing a smirk at the pronunciation of my name like an out-of-the-way guest house.

‘I said to the wife a few minutes ago, “We will see our young friend today, I feel sure.”’ He beams his tooth-filled grin and I find myself smiling back. ‘She is spending my money as usual. Ah, there she is.’

The Wife skips around the tables, waving a handful of books.

She nods at me. ‘You find your friend yesterday?’

‘Erm, yes, he’s busy working right now.’

‘Ah, there is plenty to occupy in here.’ She spreads her books on the table.

‘Plenty to bore me stupidly.’ Dirk throws back his head like in mock despair.

The Wife smiles at me. ‘Look at this, James McCalstry’s Lochgillan Stories.’

I grab the book, a sharp stab in my guts at the mention of McCalstry. The blurb promises tales of intrigue, deception and cold-blooded slaughter, recorded in 1886 and providing a fascinating mythic backdrop to the clan still dominant in the area today.

‘Wow, that doesn’t look boring to me?’ I’m already tempted to spill the beans on my McCalstry origins.

‘Not to me either,’ The Wife smiles knowingly at Dirk.

‘Ah, the wife feels a special connection,’ Dirk explains.

‘My great grandfather was a McCalstry,’ she says with a smug smile. ‘From Argyle, but still, we are all one clan, you see?’ She pats me on the shoulder, like she already knows about me. I’m weirdly pleased to know my connection is stronger than hers without having to brag about it.

‘So now I have the tales, we must to the ancestral home, no, Dirk?’

‘Ah, well, the dogs need a walk, that much is true.’ Dirk winks at me, like I’m in on humouring The Wife. ‘And what about you Geth-in? You will come with us up the Broomdale? They say there are many rare plants, you can help me convince Else we can identify them, no?’ Dirk flashes his gold toothed grin.

‘Else. You have a name?’ I surprise myself by not instantly finding an out for this trip.

She holds out her hand to me. ‘And you will do me pleasure to come with us?’

I shake her hand and nod my agreement. God knows, the McCalstry connection or just desperate loneliness, but right now I’ll take adoption by this crazy couple. And I’ll get to see Broomdale, which is, remember, myancestral home, not hers.

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