Scot of My Dreams (3 page)

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.

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.

As for me, I was determined to stay until the last moment.

I took pictures, though I knew nothing could capture the scale and feel of the place. On the far side of the ring, my fellow travelers were dwarfed by the stones themselves. In my photographs, the humans would barely be noticeable. By the end of our allotted forty-five minutes, I was finally able to get a photo with only the stones, nothing of the twenty-first century to mar the majesty of the ancient rocks.

At the very last minute, when it was almost time to head back to the bus, I stepped behind one of the largest monoliths and laid my hand, palm flat, against the sandstone. Try as I might, I couldn’t hear or feel anything out of the ordinary. Was time travel possible in any context? Or was it only the stuff of fiction?

And what about the rocks themselves? Did they somehow hold the memory of all the millennia that had passed since they were lifted into place?

I couldn’t believe I had never heard of this place. Everyone knew about Stonehenge. But Brodgar was so far north, you really had to work to get here. I was glad I decided to make this trip, even if I
was
flying solo.

On the way back to Inverness, I had a couple of hours to think. The enjoyable part of that equation was rehashing everything I had seen and done today. As the adrenaline faded, however, my mood deflated.

I honestly considered flying home early. Then I wouldn’t have to worry so much about my business, but I knew Hayley and McKenzie would be disappointed in me. Truthfully, I would be disappointed in myself. How could I possibly turn my back on Scotland? What was wrong with me? McKenzie had challenged Hayley and me to be brave and adventurous…to emulate our favorite heroine, Claire.

Surely I wasn’t a coward. Was I?

No. That wasn’t my problem. If anything, I had plenty of guts. I’d demonstrated that early in life.

The reason I was feeling so low right now was because I was lonely.

There. I admitted it. Willow Ryman—emotional hermit—was lonely. I don’t know why I found that admission embarrassing. Back home I kept so busy all day long I never had time to be lonely. I barely had time to think.

Now suddenly, all this unscripted leisure time was messing with my head.

By the time we made it back to the terminal in Inverness, it was late. I wanted to grab dinner in the city, but the last bus that ran past the hostel left in thirty minutes. I resigned myself to snacking on crackers.

At the hostel, I showered and fell into bed.

I knew my roommates would come in later, but I didn’t care.

* * *

At breakfast the following morning, I fielded a round of goodbyes. I was the only one not checking out and moving on. Something about that troubled me. Still, I knew that a new crop of travelers would appear. I was going to get very good at meeting people. Though I was quiet by nature, my job back home required me to chat with customers. Most were women, old and young, whom I had known for several years.

That was different, though. With the clients who patronized my hair salon, there was a certain camaraderie born of shared backgrounds and experiences. Here, I was keenly aware of being different. Maybe that was why people said travel was broadening.

By mid-morning, I was the only guest remaining in the Glenmurr Youth Hostel. Definitely anticlimactic. Fortunately, I was seeing peeks of sunshine out the window. Mrs. Garrett, the rotund woman who presided over the twice-a-day meals, insisted that the day was going to be “pure brilliant.”

I hoped she was right. She’d been kind enough to find me a map and to offer me an apple for my lunch. All that was left was to scoot up to my room and grab a few things to take with me. Inside my backpack I had brought a rolled-up raffia tote that slung easily over my shoulder. I wasn’t sure how safe it was to leave valuables behind, so I grabbed my passport, money, and a few personal items.

Already, I felt better. It was invigorating to have a purpose. I was going to explore the heck out of this place. Once I had exhausted everything in walking distance, I would rent a bicycle and go even farther afield.

Yesterday’s outing was only the beginning.

Hampered by my aversion to maps in general, I nevertheless located a broken line that was supposed to mark a scenic nature trail. We had those back home. The designation seemed superfluous here, because as far as I could tell,
everything
in Scotland was scenic. The whole damn country was breathtaking.

All around me the world steamed in the morning sun. Yesterday’s rain had left things damp and green. I walked forever, it seemed, until I came upon a small brook. The clear water tumbled over shiny stones with a musical theme that lured me in. I knew better than to drink untreated water, but I wanted to dip my toes at least.