Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
BLAIR
I stumble off the plane at Glasgow Airport feeling like I’ve been put through a blender. My hair’s doing something that defies both gravity and any known style, my mouth tastes like I’ve been chewing on airplane upholstery, and my sweater is more wrinkled than a scrotum.
But hey, I’m in Scotland. The home of Scotch and shortbread, and hopefully a place where nobody’s heard of a certain disastrous AI app.
The rental car counter is staffed by a cheerful woman with an accent so thick I only catch about half of what she says. She hands over keys to what she assures me is a “lovely wee motor”—I catch that bit—though when I find it in the parking lot, it looks more like a sardine can with wheels.
“Right,” I mutter, walking around to what should be the driver’s side but isn’t. “This is fine. Totally fine. People do this every day.”
The steering wheel is on the wrong side. The gearshift is in the wrong place. Even the dashboard is back to front. But I adjust the seat and mirrors, and grip the wheel.
“Okay, Blair, you’ve got this. It’s just driving. On the opposite side of the road, with none of the controls where they’re supposed to be. But you’ll be fine.”
I inch out of the parking space, nearly clipping a post, and somehow make it onto what I think is the correct side of the road.
A truck thunders past, and I grip the wheel tighter.
In New York, driving meant stop-and-go traffic, honking horns, and the occasional creative gesture from fellow motorists.
Never thought I’d miss that chaos, but when I come to my first traffic circle, I realise New York driving wasn’t so bad after all.
Somehow I get through it in one piece, and the GPS in its crisp British accent tells me it’s a four-and-a-half-hour drive to Ardmara, the small Highland town where my grandmother grew up. I’ve booked a hotel room there for a few nights. Seemed as good a place as any to start my Scottish adventure.
The first stretch is highway—grey asphalt and steady traffic through urban sprawl. I start to think I’m getting the hang of this. Then something magical happens. The landscape opens into wide valleys and rolling hills so green they almost hurt my eyes.
I leave the main road and drive along something that feels more like a bike path, edged with stone walls determined to scrape my mirrors off.
At a gas station in literally the middle of nowhere, I’m rung up by a guy with a beard that could house small wildlife.
He insists on giving me directions in an accent I pretend to understand.
I nod enthusiastically, praying the GPS has this because I definitely don’t.
Back on the road, the landscape gets even wilder. Mountains loom ahead, their peaks shrouded in mist. I catch glimpses of lochs—actual lochs!—silver-grey under the shifting clouds. Sheep dot the hillsides, completely unbothered by my little rental car puttering past.
Then the road crests a hill, and there it is: the coast, with water that stretches to the horizon, dotted with islands that look like they’ve been scattered by some giant’s careless hand.
And nestled against the water, like something from a fairy tale, is Ardmara.
The town hugs the shoreline in a gentle crescent, its buildings stepping down toward the harbour in tiers.
From up here, I can see that the houses along the waterfront are painted in soft pastels—pale yellow, mint green, dusty pink, lavender blue.
As if the town decided it needed a bit of extra cheer to compete with the moody Scottish sky.
A white ferry cuts through the dark water, heading straight for the port with a trail of foam in its wake. Even from this distance, I can make out tiny figures on its deck.
“Okay, Granny,” I murmur. “Let’s see what your hometown is all about.”
The road winds down and into Ardmara. Soon I’m driving along the waterfront, the town wrapping around me like a warm hug.
I find the Harbour Inn easily enough—it’s right there in the name, after all—a three-storey building painted a cheerful yellow with window boxes overflowing with petunias.
The woman at the front desk has silver hair in a neat bun and the kind of smile that should be bottled and sold as a cure for jet lag.
“Welcome to Ardmara, dear,” she says, handing over an actual metal key, not some plastic card. “First time in Scotland?”
“First time in Europe,” I admit. “Your town is beautiful.”
“Och, we think so. Your room’s just up the stairs, second door on the left. Lovely view of the harbour. I have it down that it’s three nights you’re staying with us, yes?”
“That’s the plan, but I might stay longer. I’m sort of playing it by ear.”
“Well, I’d be glad to extend your stay if that’s what you decide to do. Though with the school holidays coming up, it does get busy. You’ve timed it well, anyway. Weather’s been a bit iffy lately, but it’s due to brighten up from tomorrow.”
My room is small but spotless, with a tartan bedspread that screams, “Yes, you’re in Scotland.” Outside the window, fishing boats bob in the water. The ferry I saw from the hill is now tied up, and cars pour from its belly, clattering down the ramp.
One quick shower and a change of clothes later, I head back downstairs. “Can you point a jet-lagged American toward a good coffee?” I ask the receptionist.
“Oh, the Lighthouse Café does a lovely cup, and their shortbread is the best on the west coast. It’s on the pier. You can’t miss it.”
Outside, the air is sharp with salt and seaweed, and cleaner than I’m used to in New York. A seagull eyes me from a streetlight, head cocked as if hoping I’ll produce a sandwich from thin air. When I don’t, it loses interest.
The Lighthouse Café sits at the base of an old lighthouse, its windows looking straight out over the harbour mouth.
Inside it’s a cosy little place with mismatched tables and chairs and the kind of atmosphere that makes you want to settle in with a good book.
The woman behind the counter greets me with the same easy warmth as the hotel receptionist, and—blessedly—no spark of recognition.
No curious probing about my spectacular career implosion.
Just a smile, a latte, and a slab of shortbread I order on the receptionist’s recommendation.
I sink into a corner chair to enjoy it. The shortbread is buttery perfection, crumbling on my tongue with just the right amount of sweetness, while the coffee nudges me a little closer to human.
After I’m done, I pull a black-and-white photo from my bag.
Mom found it when we cleared out Granny’s house.
It shows Granny as a young girl, no more than eight or nine, beaming at the camera from in front of a whitewashed stone cottage with an arched doorway and climbing roses.
It’s the house Granny grew up in. I’ve no clue where it is, but how hard can it be to track down one cottage in a town this size?
Besides, who doesn’t love a little treasure hunt?
I leave the café and soon discover finding Granny’s cottage could be harder than I expected.
Ardmara is no Manhattan, where everything’s numbered and runs in logical lines.
No, this place was designed by someone who likes surprises.
The streets curve and twist without warning, and every time I think I’m getting my bearings, the road I’m on decides to become a different road entirely, or splits into two paths that both look equally promising and equally likely to lead me in circles.
I don’t really mind, though, because every person I pass offers a smile or a nod, like they’re genuinely happy I’m here.
Of course, I could stop and show people the photo, ask for directions, but that would spoil the fun. I want to solve this myself.
Before long I’m somehow back at the waterfront, passing a bakery piping out the smell of fresh bread, only for it to be instantly upstaged by the fishmonger next door.
A little further on, there’s a window overflowing with tweed caps and tartan scarves, plus a bulletin board advertising everything from ceilidhs to craft fairs.
I’m half-distracted by all the window boxes and painted storefronts when I spot a small building with ardmara library painted in neat letters above the door.
Books used to be my world. My passion, my career, my whole identity. Manuscripts, deadlines, endless tracked changes, back-and-forth emails with authors. Now books are just a reminder of everything I’ve lost. I should walk past, keep looking for Granny’s house, focus on the reason I’m here.
But my feet have other ideas. Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m pushing through the library door.
It’s small and cosy, with shelves that reach the ceiling and a bay window fitted with a cushioned bench. What stops me in my tracks, though, is the children’s section.
A colourful mural of sea creatures spills across the wall, and on a display table, picture books are fanned out just so. Before I can stop myself, I’m gravitating toward the table. Just a quick look , I tell myself.
Right in the centre of the display is a Katie Morag book, Katie Morag and the Two Grandmothers .
Because of course it is. I pick it up almost without thinking, my thumb tracing the familiar cover art, the feisty red-haired girl on her windswept island, perched on a bench between her fancy mainland grandma in pearls and her practical island granny in rain boots.
God, I haven’t seen one of these books in years.
I flip it open, and there’s Katie in her tartan skirt, washing a sheep in a bubble bath.
A couple of pages later, she’s rolling its wool into curls under a hairdryer.
The illustrations are just as charming as I remember, full of character and life, with that slightly chaotic energy that makes them so appealing to kids—and that once upon a time, curled on my granny’s couch in Toronto, was irresistible to me.