I was the only person getting off. No one seemed curious about my departure, perhaps because there were only a handful of passengers remaining. I hoisted my backpack onto my shoulder, picked up my suitcase, and exited the bus. As my transportation drove away into the mist, I took a deep breath and gave myself a pep talk.
I couldn’t afford to stay a month at the Hilton, even if such an establishment existed in this part of the world. A hostel would be the ideal compromise. Clean bed. Safe surroundings. Two meals a day if I wanted them. Plus, the opportunity to meet new people.
Everything was perfect.
I had spent considerable time online before coming to Scotland, long enough to discover that the modern and fancy hostels were priced accordingly, especially the locations in walking distance of town. The one I had chosen was old, perhaps built in the mid-twentieth century. It offered no private lodging. The only sleeping arrangements were shared rooms for six with a communal bathroom down the hall, men and women on alternating floors.
The hostel was in walking distance of Inverness if you considered four miles walking distance. I loved to walk, I told myself stoutly. The exercise would be good for me. Fresh air. Healthy activity. I would go home to Georgia at the end of the month a new woman.
I opened the front door of the building and stepped inside. The smell of cooked cabbage permeated the beige lobby. At the front desk, a man who bore a striking resemblance to Rip Van Winkle greeted me with a gruff hello.
“I’m Willow Ryman,” I said. “I have a reservation.”
Without speaking, he looked me up and down, then shuffled through a stack of papers and grunted, “Need a credit card.”
I fished it out and handed it over.
Mr. Winkle ran it through a machine, slid a paper across the counter for me to sign, and offered me an old-fashioned room key attached to a diamond-shaped piece of faded purple plastic. “Dinner’s at six. Room’s on the top floor. Don’t be late.”
I nodded, deciding that small talk wasn’t required.
Either I was a very early check-in, or maybe occupancy was down since it was midweek. When I opened the door to 412, I found three sets of bunk beds, but only one of them appeared to be in use. Which was the prime real estate? Top or bottom bunk?
I’m tall, five foot ten in my bare feet. So I decided I’d be better off with a little more headroom. I chose a bunk near the window with a nice view. After placing my suitcase in one of the six cubicles, I kicked off my shoes and climbed up the ladder, carrying my pack with me.
Once again, jet lag threatened to pull me under, but I resisted. Instead, I sat cross-legged and stared out across the countryside. I could see a small body of water. Some sheep. What looked to be an old barn. But not much else. Perhaps in the morning if the sun was out I’d get a better sense of where I was.
I found myself at a loss. In my attempt to be frugal, I had clearly underestimated the inconvenience of being some distance away from the heart of Inverness without a car. Maybe I could rent a bicycle.
A sudden yawn took me by surprise. I needed to make a plan, but my brain was fuzzy. Though I had gently teased Hayley about all her maps and guidebooks, I realized ruefully that I was underprepared. I had worked at the salon right up until an hour before we left for the airport. I had clothes and a passport with me, but beyond that, I was stymied.
What did one do in Scotland for a month without transportation or companions? I was supposed to be looking for a wild and wickedly handsome Scotsman like Jamie from Outlander. Someone who might romance me and introduce me the wonders of his homeland.
So far, meeting Rip Van Winkle was the extent of my interaction with the opposite sex.
Without fanfare, the door of my room opened and a petite blonde with a ponytail and an extremely fit body bounced into the room. She stopped short when she saw me. “Oh, good,” she said, her British accent crisp and pleasant. “I was hoping I wasn’t going to be alone tonight. I’m Lindsey from Liverpool.”
I leaned down awkwardly to shake her hand. “Willow Ryman. Nice to meet you,” I said.
She cocked her head. “Is your boyfriend on the third floor as well?”
“Excuse me?” The brain fog seemed to have increased.
“Your boyfriend,” she insisted. “It’s crazy that they don’t let us room together, but I suppose they don’t want to promote bad behavior.” She put the words in air quotes.
“Bad behavior?”
“You know,” she said, grinning. “Shagging. Not that anything will stop my Lenny from doing…well, you know. At least we have the great outdoors.”
I didn’t know. Not at all. The last time I had “shagged” anybody was over two years ago. I’d poured my heart and soul into making sure my hair salon was a success. This little girl smirking at me couldn’t be nineteen if she was a day.
“I’m traveling alone,” I said.
“Oh.” She radiated disapproval. “I’ve always heard it isn’t smart for a woman to hike and backpack on her own.”
“I’m not,” I said hastily. “I’m going to be here for a month. Exploring the Highlands. In depth. It’s going to be great.”
Maybe Lindsey thought I was too old to backpack across Europe, or maybe she felt sorry I was all alone. At any rate, she dropped the inquisition. “We’re doing the Great Glen Way,” she said. “Seventy-nine miles from Inverness to Fort William.”
“Fort William?” My ears perked up. The words conjured up scenes of torture from the television series Hayley and McKenzie and I had watched again and again. We could practically recite the dialogue by heart.
Lindsey nodded. “Yes. There’s a group of us doing the route as a last hurrah before we go back to university in a few weeks.”
I could think of lots better ways to celebrate the end of summer. Ones that didn’t involve hard work and long days. I experienced enough of that in my real life. Despite my current bare-bones situation, I was hoping my trip to Scotland was going to be more about leisure and fun times. Too bad they didn’t have mint juleps in the Highlands. I could use one right about now.
Lindsey crouched on the floor and rummaged through her pack, searching for something. When she stood up, she had a pocketknife in her hand. “Have you had lunch?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Big breakfast,” I mumbled, wondering how she had sneaked a pocketknife through airport security.
“One of the girls on the second floor has a jar of peanut butter and some crackers. You’re welcome to hang out with us.” She reached into her cubicle and came out with a trio of apples, thus explaining the sharp implement.
Her genuine friendliness and generosity stymied me. I was accustomed to taking care of myself. “Thanks,” I said. “I’m good for now. Maybe I’ll see you at dinner?”
“Count on it,” she said. “I’ll introduce you to my friends tonight. Later, Willow.”
Chapter 4
After the perky Lindsey bounced back out of the room again, I couldn’t help myself. I fell asleep. But only for half an hour. After that, I made myself get up, and I splashed my face with cold water. The ploy worked. Mostly. I meandered downstairs and studied the two large bulletin boards.
I had all sorts of options. A poetry reading in the nearby village hall. Two kittens, free to a good home. Professional couple in Inverness interviewing prospective live-in nanny in exchange for room and board. Single white male seeking unattached female for travel and shared expenses. I wrinkled my nose. If I was going to be on the lookout for romance, I’d certainly have to look farther afield.
Rip Van Winkle was hunched over the desk, snoring. I supposed it was a good thing I didn’t need any real assistance. I doubted the old guy would be up to the task.
When I had exhausted the reading material on the bulletin boards, I put on my jacket and stepped outside. I was terrible at navigating; I had no sense of direction at all. I didn’t want to get lost on my first day. Tomorrow morning after breakfast, though, I was going to head out on my big adventure.
As the hour grew later, people began to show up at the hostel. They looked at me curiously as they entered. Most of them said hello as they passed. The accents were a mixed bag. Lots of Brits. A few French couples. Even a gaggle of girls from one of the Scandinavian countries.
Gradually, the mortifying truth became clear. Unless I missed my guess, I was going to be the grandma of the group. At thirty-two, I felt ancient. Not a single one of these energetic, fresh-faced kids could be more than twenty-three or twenty-four years old. What must it be like to have such freedom? To simply take off and explore the globe?
I refused to let the age thing get me down. So I had postponed my world travels. So what? I was here now. That was all that mattered.
Dinner at the hostel was a rousing affair. After going through the cafeteria-style buffet line, we sat around several large tables with eight seats each. Everyone seemed partnered off in two and fours, but they were all charming and friendly and more than happy to include a stranger on her own. Lindsey’s group numbered a dozen in all. They planned to leave at first light. A trekking company would transfer their luggage ahead to the next stop.
Already I was sorry to see them go. What good did it do me to make friends if they were all going to move on after a day or two?
One of the French guys flirted with me brazenly, despite the fact that his companion was a beautiful young woman. Maybe she was used to it. Marcel waved his fork at me. “So why are you all alone, Mademoiselle Willow? Are the men in your country dim-witted?”
“I do fine on my own,” I insisted, choosing not to dwell on the memory of leaving my two friends in Inverness. “I’m taking the opportunity to wallow in a new culture…to expand my horizons.”
Lindsey was sitting at my elbow. “But won’t you be lonely?”
It seemed no one was going to be satisfied until I explained my situation. I felt my ears get hot. “I came to Scotland with two girlfriends, but we decided to split up. We’re big fans of a television series set in Scotland…Outlander? Have you heard of it?”
Blank faces all around.
“Well, anyway,” I said, forging on, “it’s about a woman who accidentally goes back in time. Since I can’t actually do that, I’m going to stay away from any kind of modern communication for a whole month. You know…go off the grid.”
One of the other young men frowned. “So you want to save energy? Protect the planet?”
“Not exactly.” Clearly, I wasn’t explaining myself well. “You should read the books,” I said. “Then you would understand.”
Marcel shook his head. “I do not ever understand you crazy Americans…no offense.”
“None taken,” I muttered, scooping up a cold bite of shepherd’s pie. Thankfully, the conversation drifted in other directions.
Maybe I really was crazy. What was Hayley doing right about now? Or McKenzie? Were they settled in? Did they struggle with the same doubts I was facing?
Fortunately, the rowdy crowd kept my mind off my worries. We moved en masse to the sitting area in the lobby and someone dragged out an ancient karaoke machine. Soon the extroverts in the group were standing on tabletops belting out Michael Jackson tunes interspersed with the more traditional “bonny, bonny banks of Loch Lomond.”
I sat in the back corner, content to watch and listen. Seldom did I waste time grieving the fact that I hadn’t been able to go to college. I often wondered if I’d ever had an adolescence at all. I’d been forced to grow up fast. But those bleak days were in the past. I had created a good life for myself…a lot to be thankful for…even if I’d never had the opportunity to be as young and carefree as my companions.
* * *
The next day I was up and out before most of my fellow travelers awoke, so early I didn’t even get breakfast. I caught the bus to Inverness and arrived at the downtown station in time to board another bus at 7:15 a.m. Thanks to a brochure I’d picked up in the lobby of the hostel, I was setting out on my first major Scottish adventure, a day trip to the Orkney Islands.
It would have been nice to have a companion, someone to chat with during the drive north. I think I was the only one on the bus not part of a couple or a group. I felt a little bit like the kid on the field trip that no one wants to sit with. Even so, I pushed aside my misgivings. I was stretching my wings…looking for new experiences. It was time to enjoy my own company.
Apparently, I had left the good weather behind in Inverness. The farther we traveled north, the grayer the skies became. Fortunately, the precipitation amounted to little more than spritzes and sprinkles that gathered on the windows and ran down the glass. I entertained myself by watching the countryside roll by.
At last we arrived at John O’Groats, one of the northernmost points on the mainland. The peculiar name was more colorful than the community itself. Other than serving as a ferry station, the small scattering of buildings had little to recommend it.
Its only real claim to fame was as a terminus for bikers and walkers who wanted to say they had conquered the length of Britain. From Land’s End in Cornwall to John O’Groats, the route covered almost nine hundred miles. I suppose for those who enjoyed a physical challenge, the trip would prove rewarding, for the scenery if nothing else.
Near the water’s edge an enterprising shopkeeper offered an assortment of gifts and souvenirs. I wasn’t tempted. Inverness was sure to have more and better items, and in this middle-of-nowhere spot, the prices were steep.
I wandered back outside and waited to take a picture of the multi-armed white signpost. According to the iconic marker, I was a mere 2200 miles from the North Pole. No wonder I felt as if I were nearing the edge of the world.
Finally, the ferry arrived. The bus driver had informed us that accessing the Orkney Isles could be dicey in bad weather. Fortunately, today’s conditions passed the test.
Once we were out on the water, I huddled into my hooded jacket and tucked my hands in my armpits to keep them warm. I had to keep reminding myself this was August. In hindsight, I should have brought a pair of gloves.
Despite the cold, I found myself lost in the moment, in the best possible way. There was something elemental about traveling by boat. Ancient peoples might have traversed this very same route.
Eventually, my desire for pictures outweighed the discomfort of frozen fingers. I fished out my phone and started clicking. No one would believe I wasn’t using a monochrome filter. The sea and the sky were painted in shades of silver and steely gray.
Again, I wished for a traveling companion: Hayley or McKenzie or even a handsome, unattached male tourist with a penchant for pleasant conversation. Today’s journey was one to be shared. My heart filled to overflowing with the sensation of the cold air stinging my cheeks, the beauty of the choppy waves, and the sheer magnificence of the wide-open sea surrounding our small boat.
Chapter 5
I was almost disappointed when we reached the opposite shore and disembarked at Burwick. There, a bus waited to take us on a tour of the Orkneys, or at least as much as we could see in a few hours. There were seventy islands in all, only twenty of which were inhabited. Over the centuries, the Orkneys had been passed back and forth between warring countries, including Norway and Denmark.
Our itinerary included multiple points of interest, but the one I was most eager to reach was the Ring of Brodgar. I knew the stone circle Diana Gabaldon created in Outlander was a fictional spot. Craigh na Dun, as she described it, was near Inverness. That fact did nothing to dampen my enthusiasm. I couldn’t wait to see an example of the real deal.
Unfortunately, I had to
put on my patience hat. Brodgar was to be our last stop before returning to the ferry. In the meantime, I devoted myself to learning everything I could from our earnest guide as we moved from one place to the next.
The tour was very interesting. We stopped by a partially excavated village that was five thousand years old. Next was a church built by Italian prisoners during the Second World War from an old Quonset hut. In the midst of it all, we paused for just an hour in the small city of Kirkwall. I grabbed fish and chips on the fly so I could window-shop.
I badly wanted to buy myself a delicate silver necklace I found. The designer was a local jeweler who had made a name for herself throughout the British Isles. But the price tag was beyond my budget, especially since I rarely wore jewelry other than small gold studs in my ears.
At last, we rendezvoused at the bus and began the return trip to the ferry. On the way— the stone circle. My heart beat faster.
Often in life, we anticipate things that turn out to be a disappointment. Today, luckily for me, was not one of those days.
The Ring of Brodgar was magnificent. I could barely breathe, and it wasn’t because we had just climbed a small hill. I was knocked flat by the realization that women and men, untold centuries before me, had lifted these enormous stones into position in some sort of attempt to worship or to understand the movements of the sun and the moon, or both.
The circle itself was enormous, roughly three hundred feet in diameter, maybe a bit more. In the center was a heather-covered mound that concealed secrets. Burial chambers? Prehistoric treasure? Something I couldn’t even imagine?
For the first time today, I didn’t mind being alone. I walked from stone to stone in silence, doing my best to channel a civilization that knew nothing of international travel or cell phones or Starbucks.
What did they think about in this isolated locale? What were their dreams? The circle of stones was so large, the tour group dispersed naturally. Those who weren’t able or willing to walk long distances returned to the bus early.
Scot of My Dreams Page 2