The Highland Fling(7)
“And castrate her soon-to-be betrothed.”
“Wait . . . what?”
“Listening now?” I nod. “Apparently he cheated on her with a chambermaid, and to make sure he learned his lesson, the Serpent Queen took him to this cave that has a flat stone slab in the middle of it. She had him pinned down, with his willy out, and then . . . poof, the boaby was gone.”
I chuckle. “Oh, I see what you did there, and I like it. ‘Boaby.’ Do you think Scottish girls tickle the tip and talk to the boaby like it’s an animal? ‘Who’s been a good boaby today? You have, yes, you have.’”
“Why are you the way you are?”
“Can’t be sure.” We both laugh. “So, Penis Stone, huh? Fascinating. Our new home is famous for a castration rock. I’m kind of digging it. Iron Crowns was filmed in Scotland, then?”
“All over. I saw that Corsekelly has a plaque in town dedicated to the Penis Stone.”
“I’d be shocked if they didn’t.” I grip the steering wheel a little tighter. “My Instagram is about to be lit.”
CHAPTER THREE
BONNIE
Roundabouts stuck in: One . . . for ten minutes.
Number of times Dakota has thrown up: Not enough fingers to count.
Number of Scotsman interactions: One, and I’m still trying to figure out what he was trying to say to us.
If a Scotsman taps his crotch, he might just be trying to tell you that boaby means “penis,” not that he wants sexual payment for his kind favor.
WELCOME TO CORSEKELLY—HOME OF FERGUS
RESIDENCE OF THE GREAT BOABY STONE
POPULATION 360
“What a sign,” I say as we hop back into the car after taking a picture in front of Corsekelly’s sign, which is rather large for such a small town. “‘Boaby Stone’ has a much better ring to it than ‘Penis Stone.’ Almost sounds like it’s a lucky rock or something, and if you rub your cheek on it, you’ll be granted good luck for years to come.”
“You’re referring to the Blarney Stone, and that’s if you kiss it,” Dakota says, buckling up and holding on to the rope, which has now permanently indented our palms. “If you kissed this stone, you might get herpes.”
“What, do you think people actually put their penises on it?”
“Uh . . . yeah. There are pictures all over the internet of people in the cave, reenacting the scene with their wives, boaby out and everything.”
“Ew, who wants to see that?”
Dakota shrugs. “Iron Crowns has the largest fan base in the world. People do crazy things.”
“Yeah, but to act like your penis is going to be chopped off, you have to have some serious trust in your wife, and you’d better make sure not to piss her off before the photo opportunity. One ‘oops’ moment and your ding-a-ling is gone forever.”
I start up the car and pull onto the narrow paved road that takes us past slate-covered cliffs and down into the valley of Corsekelly.
Oh my God.
The trees lining the road part, and we are greeted by a vast expanse of glittering water, framed by gorgeous mountains, dusted in green, and sprinkled with large slate stones. It’s positively gorgeous here.
A new chapter rests right in front of us.
New opportunities.
New people—hopefully nice people.
New adventures.
I can feel it already: the change I’m making, the confidence this decision is instilling in me. This very well might be exactly what we both need.
“There’s the town,” Dakota says, pointing to a smattering of white clay buildings.
“And where’s the rest of it?” I ask as we approach.
“That’s it. It’s really small.”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a town this small. No more than twenty buildings border the town’s main thoroughfare, which runs along the lakeshore and is aptly named Corsekelly Lane.
All facing out toward Loch Duich, the buildings are constructed of white clay, decorated with rock walls, and enhanced by colorful displays of seasonal flowers hanging from cast-iron plant hooks. Compared to the houses in America, they aren’t grand by any means, and the windows and doors look far too small for an adult, but they’re charming, picturesque, and make me feel like I’ve just entered a fantasy.
Compact and charismatic.
“You know, the town feels more like a pit stop rather than a place to live,” I say to Dakota, who’s busy staring out the window, taking in Corsekelly just as much as I am.
“But there is nothing touristy about it besides that tour bus parked in front of . . . I think that’s a hotel. That’s kind of nice. It will feel like we’re tucked away.”
“True.” I nod. “And I love the wooden signs hanging above every door.” Driving extra slow, I read them out loud. “FERGIE’S CASTLE. THE ADMIRAL. UNDER THE GOAT’S KILT INN—bet that doesn’t smell very good.” We both laugh, and I steer us down the stone-paved road. “THE MILL MARKET, BUBBLES LINEN BASKET, PARLAN’S PUMP PETROL, MURDACH’S WEE BAKESHOP, COFFEE . . . wait, coffee? Is that . . . that ‘coffee house’?” I ask, grimacing as we draw even with a lackluster building.