Some like it scot, p.5
Some Like It Scot, page 5
The garden path spilled out into a vast glen, the beauty of which caused me to pause my steps. My breath caught. A lush hillside slanted down to Loch na Keal, and hugging the edge of the water stood a line of brightly colored buildings, just like photos I’d seen of other Scottish places like Tobermory or Portree. Quaint, colorful, and waiting for a visit.
The path wove through a glorious field that looked like a carpet of gold. What a combination. Blue loch, green hillsides, azure sky, and a field of . . . I drew closer.
Buttercups.
Thousands of them blanketed the way toward Glenkirk, and the picture settled somewhere deep in my heart. With sloped mountains in the distance and a wide, blue sky paired with the golden field and colorful buildings, I thought for a moment that I’d stepped into a childhood story.
Grandpa had often commented on how the Blue Ridge Mountains reminded him of his childhood home in the Scottish Highlands. There was a similarity to the sloping backdrop of valleys, hills, and occasional rocky edges, but this landscape held an even more ruggedly beautiful aspect. And vastness with an ancientness I could feel almost bone deep.
I took some photos and short videos to use for later, then jotted down a few notes in my notebook before taking the path down the hill. A quiet surrounded the view unfolding before me, and I could even hear the wind move through the grass. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d experienced such stillness. The world slowed down. I felt it in some strange way, like I felt the sluggishness of sleep start to take hold while sitting by the fire during an evening rain. And underneath the quiet, a strange sort of calm soothed me like nothing I’d ever known. Not exactly like sleep, but more like . . . well . . . like a loving caress over my soul.
Almost as if I knew this place. Like I’d breathed the air before.
But that was ridiculous. I’d seen hundreds of breathtaking views, some even more so than this one, but here in this place I felt an inexplicable tug toward memory and life and . . . what else?
I paused on the trail, wrangling a sudden rush of emotion under control. Grandpa’s memory always hovered close, but ever since I’d stepped into his ancestral country, thoughts of him seemed nearer. I wrapped my arms around myself in a hug, bracing my heart for the squeeze of pain. The thinnest tether binding me to those Blue Ridge Mountains had snapped when my grandparents died. The sense of belonging to a place and people where I could just be myself had dissolved with each passing year that separated me from their hugs.
My sister’s face rushed to my mind, unbidden, and my whole body tensed against the onslaught of failures. Of lostness. Of unspoken words and impossible expectations.
I shook away the thoughts and raised my camera for another photo or two, capturing the present. The moment. The beauty right in front of me.
As an adult, I rarely gave much credit to what Mom said, but in one thing she was absolutely right.
“You can’t change the past, so just leave it be.”
The village looked much closer than the half hour it took me to get to the first building on the main street. I traversed over damp ground and a bog that soaked my tennis shoes to such an extent that water squished out of the sides of them with each step I took along the pavement.
The effect of the rainbow buildings separated by a cobblestone street from the dark waters of Loch na Keal proved a striking example of nature and humans meeting in the middle to create a beautiful combination. The buildings of Glenkirk poised along the right side, and on the left a small man-made rock ledge lined with flowers buffered the street from a drop into the loch.
In America there probably would have been a guardrail to block folks from taking a fun tumble into the water, or if legend held, from being pulled under by a murderous mermaid or kelpie. But here it seemed the folks favored more natural beauty and less intrusion—either that or not enough people had fallen into the loch to cause a problem.
The shops looked even cuter close up, and a few small boats wobbled in the gentle waves of the loch. As my next step squished and my cold toes begged for relief, I scanned the nearest buildings for evidence of the shops’ contents. Only nine or ten shops lined the road with a few more scattered along the hillside behind. They were different heights and widths, but all the same general boxy shape with white-framed windows surrounded by colors of teal, red, or yellow. I figured that since it rained so much in Scotland, the natives tried whatever they could to brighten up the atmosphere. Which made me like them even more. I was a sucker for dedicated optimists.
The Glenkirk Inn stood as one of the tallest buildings at the edge of the street, each of the windows on its three stories curtained with a patchwork of different patterns. A post office came next, followed by Lochside Café and then some sort of all-purpose shop called The Scot. Shona’s Bakehouse and Sweeties was squeezed in between a charity shop called Second Go ’Round and The Haverin’ Magpie, which didn’t open until later in the day.
The shops seemed to have a little bit of everything, kind of like the colors of the buildings. A steeple rose from a church secluded behind a veil of trees in the distance up from the main street. Then my attention focused on a beautiful yellow building with the sign “Mirren’s Books” on the front.
Mirren’s large sign read: “Visitor’s Centre, Books & Tackle.”
My lips formed a smirk. Quite the combination.
The sudden jingling of a bell sounded behind me, spoiling the midmorning quiet.
“Comin’ through!” came a youthful and somewhat frantic call along with the bell.
I turned just in time to see a raven-haired girl whizzing down the street toward me on a bicycle. Her hair flew in all directions as the bike approached at an alarming speed.
The earlier warmth of the sun dissipated from my body and I froze in place.
“Get out of the way! My brakes is gone!”
And that was the second time I saw my life flash before my eyes since coming to Scotland.
Chapter 4
Katie
Just as the cycling siren neared enough for me to see the whites of her eyes, my sloshy tennis shoes and I jumped to the side, landing in a magnificent mud puddle and clearing the way for the homicidal mini-cyclist to zoom past.
She shot a toothy grin over her shoulder, and I’m pretty sure my jaw slacked.
The little rascal!
If my eyes shot lasers, little Miss “My brakes is gone!” would have an exploded tire. I stared at the girl’s retreating silhouette as I pulled myself from the tiny pond from which I’d landed and shook out my shoes.
“I see you survived Kirsty and her dreaded bicycle.”
A woman about my mom’s age stood just outside the door of Mirren’s. She wore a patterned dress with a red cardigan over it, and her dark hair fell to her shoulders in waves.
“So that happens often?” I took a few steps toward her welcoming smile, the squishing-shoe sounds keeping time with my words.
“Aye.” Her pale eyes twinkled. “Some of us thinks there’s naught wrong with her brakes and she merely likes to terrify folks to an early grave. Like her dad, that one.”
My grin responded to her humor without hesitation. Her accent probably helped too. “I think my heart might have stopped there for a second.” I patted my chest and closed the distance. “But since my life follows a series of unexpected accidents, I think I’ll survive.” I looked back in the direction the little girl had left. “And I’ll know to keep my eye out for her next time.”
“Both eyes.” The woman pointed toward her own. “If I was you, especially with that one.”
Oh, I liked this lady. With a renewed smile, I offered my hand. “Katie Campbell.”
“Campbell.” Her dark brows rose as she examined my face and took my hand. “Have you tossed that name around the village much?”
My smile resurrected. “My taxi driver told me to be careful with it since I was in McClean country and might find myself on the wrong side of a claymore.”
Her laugh burst out in such an infectious way, it made me want to hug her. “Aye, if you’d lived here a few centuries ago.” She wiped her eyes and looked back up at me. “But I think you’re safe in this century if you stay away from certain villages. Though, if you’re keen to learn more about it, Duart Castle is the site of one of the many battles between the McCleans and Campells.”
Had I seen something about Duart Castle on a map?
“It’s naught a half hour drive from here and has a braw view.”
“Then I’ll definitely add it to my list of sites to see on Mull.”
“I s’pose you have some Scottish heritage in ye?”
“Aye.” I tried the word out. “My grandfather was a first-generation Scottish American and Scotland’s biggest fan.”
Her smile grew to crinkle her eyes. “Mirren MacKerrow, and this is my bookshop.” She gestured inside before leading the way over the threshold.
For a book lover, bookshops held a similar ambience no matter where you were in the world. The shelves of spines, the scents of paper and baked goods—but in this case an added mild fragrance of fish blended into the overall atmosphere.
Again, unexpected.
“There’s a bit of everything here, as you’ll find with most of the shops in Glenkirk. Small, but we have a mind of how to use our space.” She waved toward the room. “Take a look around, Katie, and I’ll fetch us some tea.”
Mirren slipped through a door in the back and left me to the wonderful quiet of the room.
The back of the shop boasted rows of books with a sweet little window seat along one part of the back wall and a cozy sitting area around a potbellied stove at the other back corner. To my left stood a counter with various baked goods on display and a couple of small tables directly in front of it. But to my right, a section of rain gear, fishing poles, and other fishy sorts of things waited.
My attention fell on a row of rain boots.
As if approving of my approach toward the boots, my shoes added a squeak along with the familiar squish.
“Ah, you’ll be needin’ some wellies, will ya noo?” Mirren appeared from the back room and gestured toward my feet. “I’m brewin’ a fresh pot so we can warm you from your soggy socks up through the rest of you.”
It was almost impossible not to keep smiling at the woman. Not only did her turn of phrase and accent make me think of my grandpa, but she glowed with a welcome and friendliness that put my whole body at ease.
“That is so kind of you.”
“Pshh!” She waved away my words and returned her attention to my shoes. “Some fresh wool socks would set you right too, you ken?”
How could a simple phrase like “you ken” squeeze my heart in twenty places? Grandpa was surely grinning down from heaven as I stepped into the world he loved so much . . . and felt such an immediate kinship to.
“Pulling on a pair of those soft warm socks over my cold toes sounds like one of the best things I’ve heard all day.” I pointed toward my shoes and wiggled my wet toes. “I’m afraid I didn’t come prepared for Scotland in the footwear department.”
“We’ll take care of that.” She nodded, then scanned me from toes to head as she reached for a pair of socks nearby. “And aren’t you a tall one? You’d barely fit through the door of my cottage. My boys have to bend their necks, and you’re nearly as tall as the shortest of the lot.”
“You should have seen me in the Philippines. I nearly bowed every time I walked through a doorway.”
A warm chuckle erupted from the woman as she handed me the socks, adding another charm to the list. She fit within these storied walls and the quaint shop. Her red cardigan over a simple dress. Her reading glasses topping her head. The resident twinkle in those pale blue eyes.
Everything fit together in a perfect sort of homey way.
“I suppose you’re one of the media people who’ve come to Craighill for the next few weeks?”
“I am. I write for a travel magazine called World on a Page.”
“So you travel for your job?” She lowered her glasses from her head to study me. “And write about what you see?”
“And any adventures or misadventures I experience along the way.”
Her chuckle warmed the room again. “From that twinkle in your eye, I’d say you’re keen on finding a few adventures.”
“Or they’re keen on finding me.”
We rummaged through the few pairs of wellies and, to no one’s surprise who has lived my life, the only ones close enough to fit my size 101/2 feet were a bright yellow pair covered in hand-painted vegetables.
“Well now. I’ve hoped to sell those for a good three years.”
I nodded down at my newly adorned feet. “I wonder what took so long.”
“I cannae say. They’ve been my favorite pair.” She offered a wink and then shuffled to the counter. “How do you find the folks at Craighill?”
I and my bright yellow wellies turned toward the books, measuring my response. “Surprised to find the Lennoxes are English instead of Scottish since the house is on Mull. But Mrs. Lennox has been pleasant enough.” No need to mention the macaw. “And the house is fantastic.”
“Aye, ’tis so.” Mirren nodded her appreciation. “A lovely house. Historic. Over four hundred years old and in need of some repair. The upkeep for a house the likes of Craighill is no small feat.”
I couldn’t even imagine. The electric bill for the farmhouse back home was impressive enough. The idea of upkeep and heating for some stone manor house on an island in the northern hemisphere? No thanks.
A whistling sound erupted from the back room, and Mirren’s head rose to attention. “Ah, the tea! I almost forgot.” She raised a finger toward me. “Take a look around at the books, and I’ll be back in a trice.”
She scurried off, leaving me to pleasantly peruse the room some more, especially the bookshelves lining the back corner. All sorts. And many featuring Scotland in some way or other. Hmm. What book had the Hateful Highlander mentioned? Lore and Legend?
Well, he was Scottish, so at least I should consider his recommendation.
I skimmed over the spines of the books. A few popular titles faced forward, particularly a series involving time travel. Another highlighted series featured dragons and swords on the covers. A crimson cover embossed with gold caught my attention, and I slipped the book from the shelf. Scottish Kisses and Other Romantic Secrets of Alba?
My face grew warm just reading the title. What on earth would the contents do? And yet, after a glance over my shoulder, I flipped open the book. Despite my less-than-stellar romantic history and uncertain romantic future, a title like that slapped on a book practically compelled the most inane romantic to take a little peek—or keek, as the locals might say.
My gaze fell on a short paragraph near the top of the page.
Though your typical Scotsman may appear standoffish to the stranger’s eye, don’t let his expression fool you. The Scots are a deeply passionate people with a love for family, story, drink, and an extended coorie or snogging opportunity.
I cleared my throat and sent another glance over my shoulder. I didn’t know what coorie meant, but I sure knew what snogging implied. I’d read enough books to almost envision that one. My face reheated and I slammed the book closed but hesitated before returning it to the shelf.
I cleared my throat and slipped the book back open.
The history and romance of Scotland is part of the lifeblood of its people. And though they may talk a great deal about their stories and histories, they’ll not fail to show rather than tell when they find their m’eudail or ghràidh—darling or love, as the case may be.
A door snapped closed, sending me into motion, and I tucked the book beneath my arm to hide the title. Good grief. I didn’t need that sort of distraction. Even though my thoughts had sufficiently dipped into the part of my brain that wondered how a wonderfully standoffish Scot might show his passion in a very non-standoffish kind of way.
And then a vision of the Sulky Scot’s eyes and shoulders—in that order—popped to mind.
Ack!
“Here we go, Katie Campbell,” came Mirren’s voice as she emerged back into view, a tray in hand.
I snatched Lore and Legend from the shelf and shoved a smile in place, hoping my cheeks weren’t as red as they felt. “You’re so kind. Thank you. But let me go ahead and pay for these purchases so I won’t forget.”
Mirren placed the tray on a small center table near the bookshelves and followed me back to the counter, where I placed the wellies and the books out for her view.
She scanned my findings and looked up at me, a twinkle deepening in her eyes as she rang up the books. “Are you looking for a wee bit of lore and romance here in Scotland, Katie Campbell?”
The heat in my face took an upswing into feverish, but I shrugged and gestured toward the books. “Fictional suits me well.”
“No beau back home, is there?”
Back home? I didn’t even know where home was. And spending too much time trying to sort out the answer ended up hurting in places I tried to ignore.
“I appreciate that matchmaking twinkle in your eyes, Mirren, but I’m not really the type of girl a home-loving Scottish guy would want. I travel a lot. I’m a little nerdy and old-fashioned. Ridiculously clumsy.” As my list grew, the twinge of loneliness in my chest grew too. “Prone to snuggle up by the fire rather than party in the pub.”
My list didn’t seem to deter that twinkle as much as I’d hoped. “Ah, so you’ve set your mind against finding true love here, have ye?”
“No, not . . . I mean . . . I’m sure there are some . . . braw Scottish men in want of a wife.” And my cheeks may have started to sizzle a little. “But no guy wants a girlfriend who travels all the time, and very few are after a giant.” I gestured toward myself.
Her brows rose.
“Not that I’m looking, of course.” I scanned the room, searching for a diversion, and my gaze landed on some hand-carved fishing poles. “Oh, what are those? Aren’t they lovely.”
