Chapter 2
Rowan
I really struggled to understand my parents’ intense aversion to this country.
The vibrant hues of the rolling hills, painted with the brushstrokes of autumn.
The clear waters of the mountain lochs, reflecting the sky above.
It all flashed by in the blink of an eye, every turn in the road showing another awe-inspiring view.
They had always held a vehement dislike of Scotland, their words dripping with warnings and cautions whenever the subject arose.
Vocal about their beliefs, they had made efforts to influence me to share their sentiments, starting when I was still quite young.
And until recently, I had been susceptible to their opinions.
But over the last few months – since their deaths, really – I’d had an overwhelming urge to travel north.
This compulsion had even begun to invade my unconscious mind.
I’d had the first dream when I turned twenty-five, just one month after my parents’ funeral.
Initially, I had attributed it to the aftereffects of the wine that Sarah and I had silently shared to ring in the milestone, but every night that had passed since, the dreams had continued.
Each one more vivid and alluring than the last.
Dreams of landscapes I had never seen before. Of forests and mountains, seemingly untouched by man. The scenery was so beautiful, even to my waking mind, that I had been researching the woods and valleys of Scotland, convinced what I was seeing was in the Highlands.
The dreams always unfolded in a similar pattern; a recurring tapestry created from the threads of my subconscious.
Every night, I found myself immersed in a vast forest, the canopy stretching up endlessly above me, cloaked in a misty haze.
I wandered aimlessly. Alone. Navigating the dense undergrowth.
Driven by an insatiable longing for something beyond my comprehension.
And every morning, I woke with a feeling of disappointment.
Like what I had been searching for had been just outside of my reach, having slipped through my grasp like an elusive shadow.
There was one element that stood out, though.
One element of my nightly reality that I looked forward to.
The haunting timbre of a man’s voice. Its cadence was as familiar as the beating of my own heart. It stirred something deep within me.
Sometimes I dreamt of just the man. I could never quite see him in my mind’s eye, but I recognised his touch, his voice.
Each encounter left a lingering echo of familiarity within me, yet despite my best efforts, the words he spoke remained unknown.
They slipped through the cracks of my consciousness like water seeping into the earth.
All that remained was the sound of that voice.
And a longing so profound, it bordered on painful.
It was similar to how I’d felt upon losing my parents.
Lost. Alone. The mere thought of them made my heart tighten in my chest, my emotions still tender and easily stirred, especially after bidding a tearful farewell to my aunt at Milford station only last night.
Sarah had again tried to talk me out of this trip, having echoed their sentiments all these years.
“I don’t see why you must go to Scotland; don’t you want to visit France, or even Spain instead?”
“I’ve already been to France. You know this, Sarah. I want to visit Scotland.” Need to. “Why are you so against it?”
But she’d turned away, lips pressed tight.
It was the same face my mother would make whenever anything to do with Scotland was brought up, the dismissal and the turn of the head indicating the conversation was closed.
What I had gleaned over the years was that the three of them had holidayed in the Highlands when I was still an infant, not more than six months old – and that something had occurred to cause their abhorrence of the country. They had never returned.
I had brought my attention back to my aunt. “I’m going to miss you, Sarah. I’ll text you every day.”
“Oh, absolutely not,” she’d insisted firmly, but with a small smile. “Every other day will suffice. Go and enjoy yourself. Stroll the Royal Mile, visit the castle. I look forward to hearing all about your adventures when you get back.”
I had led my aunt to believe I was going to Edinburgh and only Edinburgh.
She had no idea my train ticket was to Inverness, and that I would be driving from there through the Highlands to Lochinver, the town she and my parents had visited all those years ago.
I was certain that if she knew this, she would have tried harder to stop me from going, or insisted on coming with me.
It had been challenging enough to convince her the trip to the capital would be harmless and that I had no intention of leaving the city centre.
I had fabricated an entire itinerary, spending hours researching and arranging it to make it believable.
I had never found it necessary to deceive my aunt or even my parents in such a way.
The very thought of being lied to was repulsive to me, and to find myself the one doing the lying…
A bitter taste soured the back of my throat, but I swallowed it down and turned my thoughts to the road ahead.
Lochinver, my intended destination, was where my father had completed a six-month rural placement prior to taking a position in the larger county hospital.
He had gone there without my mother, who’d chosen to stay in England with my aunt.
Sarah had still been in school at the time, and with their parents both deceased, Mum had been her caretaker.
Although my parents never spoke positively about their holiday in the Highlands, my father did share with me that he had enjoyed being Lochinver’s solitary doctor when he had worked there.
It was one of the reasons I had decided to visit the little town.
The tourist brochure I had downloaded had solidified my decision, and I had booked a holiday rental immediately upon reading it.
It depicted Lochinver as a quaint little fishing village nestled on the banks of Loch Inver, surrounded by rolling hills.
It had gone on to describe the seafood that was caught in the loch: haddock and lobster and plump scallops, all served fresh in the many eateries the town had to offer.
But it was the images of the woodlands that had drawn me in.
The forests surrounding the town looked so like my recent dreams that I had not stopped to think twice, and before I knew it, the two-week stay was booked, the false itineraries were created, and my craving for answers was almost assuaged. I just needed to get there now.
Two hours had passed since I had arrived in Inverness, departed the Caledonian sleeper train, and picked up my hire car.
Two hours of the three-hour drive from Inverness to Lairg to Lochinver completed, and I needed a break.
A place to stretch my legs. So, when I saw a sign up ahead, indicating a pullover, I did just that.
Only a handful of other people were stopped, most appearing to be tourists, just like me. They were absorbed in their phones, or had their cameras out, eagerly capturing the spectacular views as if they were timeless treasures. Ones that could vanish at any moment.
Exiting my vehicle, I took in my surroundings as I stretched my back.
A large metal bridge extended across an expanse of water to my left, while to the right, mountains loomed in the distance, moody and dark.
In the loch far, far below, wrinkles of water danced over stones, sunlight sparkling off the ripples.
It was as if the surface of the water had been sprinkled with glitter.
Magical. I took a photo, wanting to capture the moment forever.
The crisp Scottish air filled my lungs, bringing with it a whiff of rain.
I eyed the approaching clouds with disdain and hurried my steps, wanting to make it to Lochinver before they hit.
Walking towards a signpost stationed at the end of the carpark – Kylesku Bridge – I made note of the arrow on a map that marked where I stood.
Tracing the route to my destination, I realised there was not much further to go, only another twenty miles or so.
Behind me was a cairn, and I read the names with interest, looking for anyone who shared my surname.
I had this weird notion that all Andersons were distant cousins of mine, and I didn’t need to look further than the top line to see one.
I said a silent prayer for the adopted relative and looked out over the memorial to the nearby hill.
“Are those deer?” I asked no one in particular.
“They’re likely tae be,” a Scottish-accented voice answered.
Sitting off to the side on a wooden bench was a little old man I had not noticed before now. I was so surprised to see him there that my hand automatically rose to my chest.
“Th’ estate that owns th’ land aroond here keeps a wee handful o’ deer weel fed year-round, so ye kin usually spot thaim aboot.”
“Oh, how wonderful,” I replied, smiling at him. I had seen plenty of deer before, but usually from a distance and much smaller than these. I could clearly see their antlers from where I stood, and counted the points. Seven on each side. “Do you think they will allow me closer to take a photo?”
He squinted up at me from under his tweed cap, his shrewd eyes sparkling as if they knew something I didn’t. “Aye, cannae see why not. They’re quite used tae humans roamin’ aboot, so the like of ye should be awricht.”
I gave him another smile, thanking him before moving along the roadside to get closer to the rise. When my legs were sufficiently stretched and my memories secured through the lens of my phone, I continued my onward trip.