As a people, the Scots despise the English, and many would say rightfully so. But individually, they are quite warm and friendly, eager to share a glass of whisky, a hot meal, or to offer a warm place to sleep.
A group of Englishmen— or, in truth, any Englishman in any sort of uniform— will not find a warm welcome in a Scottish village. But should a lone Sassenach amble down their High Street— the local population will greet him with open arms and broad smiles.
Such was the case when I happened upon Inveraray, upon the banks of Loch Fyne. A neat, well-planned town that was designed by Robert Adam when the Duke of Argyll decided to move the entire village to accommodate his new castle, it sits on the edge of water, its whitewashed buildings in neat rows that meet at right angles (surely a strangely ordered existence for one such as I, brought up
amid the crooked intersections of London).
I was partaking of my evening meal at the George Hotel, enjoying a fine whisky instead of the usual ale one might drink at a similar establishment in England, when I realized that I had no idea how to get to my next destination, nor any clue how long it would take to get there. I approached the proprietor (one Mr.
Clark), explained my intention to visit Blair Castle, and then could do nothing but blink in wonder and confusion as the rest of the inn's occupants chimed in with advice. "Blair Castle?" Mr. Clark boomed.
(He was a booming sort of man, not given to soft speech.) "Well, now, if ye're wanting to go to Blair Castle, ye'II certainly be wanting to head west toward Pitlochry and then north from there."
This was met by a chorus of approval—and an equally loud echo of disapproval.wOch, no!" yelled another (whose name I later learned was MacBogel). "He'II be having to cross Loch Toy, and a greater recipe for disaster has never been tasted. Better to head north now, and then move west."wAye," chimed in a third, "but then he'll be having Ben Nevis in his way. Are you saying a mountain is a lesser obstacle than a puny loch?"wAre you calling Loch Toy puny? I'll be telling you I was born on the shores of Loch Toy, and no one will be calling it puny in my presence." (I have no idea who said this, or indeed, almost everything forthwith, but it was all said with great feeling and conviction.)wHe doesn't need to go all the way to Ben Nevis. He can turn west at Glencoe."wOh, ho, ho, and a bottle of whisky. There isn't a decent road heading west from Glencoe. Are you trying to kill the poor lad?"
And so on and so forth. If the reader has noticed that I stopped writing who said what, it is because the din of voices was so overwhelming that it was impossible to tell anyone apart, and this continued for at least ten minutes until finally, old Angus Campbell, eighty years if he was a day, spoke, and out of respect, everyone quieted down.wWhat he needs to do," Angus wheezed, "is travelsouth to Kintyre, turn back north and cross the Firth of Lome to Mull so that he can scoot out to Iona, sail up to Skye, cross over to the mainland to Ullapool, back down to Inverness, pay his respects at Culloden, and from there, he can proceed south to Blair Castle, stopping in Grampian if he chooses so he can see how a proper bottle of whisky is made."
Absolute silence met this pronouncement. Finally, one brave man pointed out, "But that'll take months."wAnd who's saying it won't?" old Campbell said, with the barest trace of belligerence. "The Sassenach is here to see Scotland. Are you telling me he can say he's done that if all he's done is taken a straight line from here to Perthshire?"
I found myself smiling, and made my decision on the spot. I would follow his exact route, and when I returned to London, I would know in my heart that I knew Scotland.
Colin watched Penelope as she read. Every now and then she would smile, and his heart would leap, and then suddenly he realized that her smile had become permanent, and her lips were puckering as if she were suppressing a laugh.
Colin realized he was smiling, too.
He'd been so surprised by her reaction the first time she'd read his writing; her response had been so passionate, and yet she'd been so analytical and precise when she spoke to him about it. It all made sense now, of course.
She was a writer, too, probably a better one than he, and of all the things she understood in this world, she understood words.
It was hard to believe it had taken him this long to ask for her advice. Fear, he supposed, had stopped him. Fear and worry and all those stupid emotions he'd pretended were beneath him.
Who would have guessed that one woman'sopinion would become so important to him? He'd worked on his journals for years, carefully recording his travels, trying to capture more than what he saw and did, trying to capture what he felt. And he'd never once showed them to anyone.
Until now.
There had been no one he'd wanted to show them to. No, that wasn't true. Deep down, he'd wanted to show them to a number of people, but the time had never seemed right, or he thought they would lie and say something was good when it wasn't, just to spare his feelings.
But Penelope was different. She was a writer. She was a damned good one, too. And if she said his journal entries were good, he could almost believe that it was true.
She pursed her lips slightly as she turned a page, then frowned as her fingers couldn't find purchase.
After licking her middle finger, she caught hold of the errant page and began to read again.
And smiled again.
Colin let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
Finally, she laid the book down in her lap, leaving it open to the section she'd been reading. Looking up, she said, "I assume you wanted me to stop at the end of the entry?"
It wasn't quite what he'd expected her to say, and that befuddled him. "Er, if you want to," he stammered. "If you want to read more, that would be fine, I guess."