Two Kinds Of Truth(9)
An unexpected shiver snakes down my spine as we drive past the Scran and Sleekit.
“Didn’t you once say the ringleaders organised the Jacobite rebellion of seventeen-forty-five in there,” I ask, pointing out of the car window.
Callum flicks his gaze towards the local pub.
“Yes. Although historians claim there were many such buildings used in and around this area.”
“And what of Bonnie Prince Charlie? What happened to him?”
“He disappeared after the battle of Culloden.”
“He wasn’t caught and put to death?”
“No. He hid in the heather and escaped.”
“And he didn’t raise another army?”
“He was finished; died an alcohol-sodden death in Florence in seventeen-eighty-eight.”
I close my eyes and visualise what it must have been like back then. I see tall, strapping men dressed in kilts, a sharpened dagger clasped to the side of their hip while they collaborate and scheme to get Charles Edward Stuart onto the throne.
I’m aware it all ends in tears, but I adore the Scottish people and their history. The men are honourable yet fearless, their women dangerous and loyal. Many of those who died fought for what they believed in, and it’s that power, that stubborn determination to win, that sucks me in. The Scottish people have such passion in their blood, they are truly amazing, and I’m lucky enough to be married to a man with that same blood flowing through his veins.
We go over a sharp bump in the road and I’m brought back to reality, opening my eyes to see Callum smile. His perfect jaw is relaxed, not tight. Those frown lines, the one’s which are etched so often onto his face these days, are nowhere to be seen. A contented sigh escapes me as Callum continues to smile, slight creases, tiny lines, forming around his eyes. They make my heart melt.
The bright red hatchback dashes out into open countryside and myriad snowy peaked mountains appear on the horizon. My own excitement grows. It’s been far too long since we visited Callum’s family, and now we’re almost there, I feel an overpowering urge to hug them close, to feel part of a clan again.
The last time we visited, we were invited to the Highland games. It was such a wonderful day. Jamie competed in the caber toss, a traditional Scottish athletic event. It’s a skilled game that sees all competitors show great strength. The competition’s always fierce between the highlanders, and to our delight, Jamie won third prize.
That same day, Callum’s grandfather bought me a classic tartan shawl. It was such a lovely gift and one I will cherish forever. His kindness, his generosity, has no bounds. His genuine openness gave me confidence whenever I was around him. I was never judged and soon became one of the family.
I open my window and enjoy the blast of fresh mountain air that takes my breath away. It’s cold, almost freezing, but the sun is shining on my face, giving a false impression of warmth.
When I close the window, it’s to hear the indicator clicking, and the car swerves gently to the right. We’re going off road, and already the thought of being at the farm makes my stomach tingle.
Within ten minutes we reach our destination.
Balinriach Farm looks just as I remember. Built in the Victorian era, the stone building is surrounded by a pebble-chip driveway and pretty borders. There’s a welcoming atmosphere to the place the minute one drives up to it. I felt it the first time I visited, and I feel it again today.
A warm smile appears on my lips when Alasdair and Jamie come out of the house to greet us. I’m always shocked at just how much Jamie looks like Callum, his twin brother. They’re identical in every way: their strong jaw line, their faces chiselled and striking, and their shared thick and wavy reddish-brown hair.
Both are over six feet tall, broad shouldered and muscular, but for Jamie it’s the hard life he leads on the farm, not the gym Callum attends twice a week that gives him such a powerful physique.
Callum gets out of the car and flings his arms around his grandfather. The old man hugs him tight and then slaps his grandson hard on the back.
“Och, ye took yir time coming home,” he chides, good-naturedly.
“I know, granda. I’m sorry; I’ve no excuse other than work commitments.”
Alasdair shrugs and shakes his head. “City life’ll kill thee, lad, if ye let it, that is.”
His grandfather turns his attention towards me, his arms already open once more, and I throw myself at him. Although he’s in his late seventies, he’s still powerful and strong, locking me in a solid embrace. I breathe in deeply. He smells of the farm, of loose tobacco and horses.
“Are ye willing to make an old man happy and stay in the main house?” he asks. I pull away and spot the spark of amusement that lights up his face.
“Well, er… I don’t…” I splutter, but Jamie laughs out loud and interrupts his grandfather's game.
“Nah, granda, she’ll be staying in the Garden House, just like last time.” He gives me a wink and strolls over, hugging me tight in his strong embrace, pulling me so close to his chest I think I might suffocate.
“’Tis guid to see ye again, Maddie,” he says with an endearing smile, the kind Callum hasn’t used in quite a while.
The Garden House is a stone building with a pitched roof of slate. It’s more of a cottage really, and I’m pleased we’ve been allowed to stay there again. It reminds me of a place Beatrix Potter might stay. There’s watercolours hanging from the walls, homemade cushions, and crochet blankets covering the backs of the chairs. The furniture is rich in colour, polished mahogany and dark oak filling the rooms, and a wood burning stove stands in the middle of the hearth. It’s simply perfect, and I love it here.