“Aye.” He picks up a stone, flings it, watches it belly-flop instead of skip. “Will you at least tell me where Ellie takes you? So I can know about the secret spot too?”
“Absolutely. I’ll even take photos.”
“Okay.” He stands. “I’m going to go get breakfast. Come on, Gus. Bye, Blair!”
They head up the path, Finn turning once to wave. I wave back then return to my notes.
So, a story about an otter. And maybe... a boy who’s lived by the sea for years but never seen one?
I pull up outside Ellie’s cottage. She’s waiting in her little front yard, which looks like something straight out of a lifestyle blog. Flowerbeds, neat paths, the whole deal. Puts Gerald to shame. She hops into the passenger seat with a canvas bag slung over her shoulder and a smile on her lips.
“Hi! Okay, head for the main road. I’ll direct you from there.” She buckles her seat belt. “Fair warning, it does get a bit narrow when we’re off the main road again.”
“Narrow?” I laugh, pulling away from the kerb. “Ellie, I drove here from Glasgow. I’ve already redefined my relationship with the word ‘narrow’.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m eating those words.
“This isn’t a road,” I mutter, gripping the steering wheel as we bump along. “This is a hiking trail that someone accidentally paved. Badly. If another car comes toward us, what do we do then? Duel?”
Ellie points to a wider bit of road ahead. “You pull into the nearest passing place and let them by. It’s all very civilised.”
“Right. Civilised.” I navigate around a pothole that could swallow a small child. “In New York, this would be considered a war crime against automobiles.”
The road—and I use that term very loosely—winds up through increasingly wild countryside. Stone walls give way to open hillsides dotted with sheep.
“Just up here,” Ellie says, pointing to a pull-off beside a wooden gate. “We can park and walk from here.”
I manage to wedge the car into the space without scraping the gatepost, though it’s a close thing. “Please tell me the walk is less terrifying than the drive.”
“Only if you don’t mind mud and sheep poo,” Ellie says cheerfully, giving my white sneakers a once-over. “I did warn you to wear a good pair of walking boots.”
“Don’t own any. But I promise I’ll buy some before our next adventure.”
We grab our bags and head through the gate, following a footpath that meanders alongside a stream. The water chatters over smooth stones, and the air smells of heather and something fresh and wild that I can’t name but makes my lungs feel like they’re getting a spa treatment.
The path leads us into a glen—I’m learning the Scottish words—where the hills rise on either side like protective arms. Ancient trees lean over the stream, their roots twisted into the banks, and everywhere I look there are shades of green I didn’t know existed.
“This is gorgeous,” I say, pulling out my phone to snap a photo. “How is this not crawling with tourists?”
“Most visitors stick to the easier walks closer to town.” Ellie steps carefully over a boggy bit of path. “Plus, it’s not easy to find unless you know where you’re going.”
The path starts to climb, winding up the hillside through bracken that brushes against our legs. My city-soft muscles protest a bit, but it’s the good kind of protest, the kind that reminds you your body was designed for more than sitting at desks and riding subway cars.
After what feels like a proper Scottish workout, the path levels out and we emerge onto a plateau. And there, arranged in a rough circle like sentinels that have been waiting centuries for company, stand ancient stones, tall and weathered.
I stop dead. “Oh. Wow.”
They’re maybe twice my height, their surfaces etched with lichen and time. Some lean at odd angles, as if bowing toward the centre.
The air feels different here. Cooler, sharper. The hairs on my arms lift like I’ve stepped into a place where the rules are slightly different.
“How old are they?” I whisper, though I’m not sure why I’m whispering. Of course Scotland comes with built-in mystical ruins.
“Over four thousand years,” Ellie says softly.
I walk slowly toward the circle, my sneakers silent on the springy turf. The stones seem to hum with something I can’t quite name—not sound, but presence. Like they’re holding secrets in their granite hearts.
“I can’t believe we’re the only ones here.”
