“Nice to meet you. I’m Blair, and as I’m sure the accent already told you, I’m American.”
“And a fan of children’s books?”
“Yes. I actually worked in children’s publishing in New York... until recently. You know what? I just flew three thousand miles across the Atlantic to escape that world, only to wander straight into a library. Ironic, huh?”
“I get that. People give up smoking more easily than books.”
I decide I like this woman. The laugh, the cute cardigan, the no-nonsense wisdom. It all puts me at ease.
We drift into easy conversation, about the library, about Ardmara, about my first impressions of Scotland. Inevitably, Granny comes up. I tell Ellie about my reason for visiting and how I’m hoping to find the house she grew up in. I did wantto track it down on my own, but jet lag is once again creeping in and the town’s winding streets have me hopelessly turned around. What the hell. I reach into my bag and pull out the photo.
“Actually, I don’t suppose you could help me? I only have this old photo to go on.”
I hand her the black-and-white picture. She studies it for a moment, then her face lights up. “Oh, that’s Douglas Fraser’s house! It’s on Braeview Drive, just past the turn-off for the old kirk ruins. You can’t miss it. It’s still got those climbing roses, though they’re a bit more established now.”
She gives me detailed directions, drawing a little map on a scrap of paper when I look confused about which fork in the road she means. Quaint, but probably more useful here than Google Maps.
“Thanks so much,” I say, tucking the photo and map back into my bag. “I really appreciate it.”
“No bother at all.” She pauses. “So, you don’t know anyone in Ardmara, and you’re travelling by yourself?”
When I nod, she brightens. “Well, if you fancy some company later, you’re welcome to come round to mine for dinner. Nothing fancy, mind. Probably just pasta and whatever vegetables are threatening to go off in my fridge. But it might be better than sitting in a hotel room on your own, eh?”
I blink at her, genuinely surprised by this small act of kindness. In New York, librarians are lovely, but they don’t typically invite random tourists home for dinner.
“I... thank you. That would be lovely. Though I should warn you, I might not be the best company. It’s been a long day, and I’m mostly running on caffeine and shortbread at this point.”
“Och, I’ll take my chances. Worst-case scenario, you faceplant in the food and I get a funny story to tell.”
Ellie sketches me a second map, this one leading to her house, and tells me to come by about six. And just like that, I’ve made a Scottish friend.
Following Ellie’s hand-drawn map, I wind my way through Ardmara’s maze of streets, past more cheerful nods from locals and a tabby cat that judges me from a garden wall. Cats, it seems, are the same in any country.
The town is almost offensively picturesque. Every corner I turn reveals another postcard-worthy view of stone cottages with colourful doors or glimpses of the harbour through narrow gaps between buildings.
Braeview Drive turns out to be a quiet residential street that climbs gently away from the town centre. The houses here are older and weathered by years of salt air and storms. About halfway up the hill, I stop dead in my tracks. This is unmistakably the house from the photograph.
The whitewashed stone walls gleam in the sunlight. Just as Ellie said, the roses are more established now, climbing high across the front wall in a cascade of pink blooms. But the arched doorway is exactly the same, and even the little window to the left of the door has the same deep-set frame.
I pull out the photo and hold it up, comparing. Yep, this is it. This is where Granny played as a child, where she learned to speak with that soft Scottish lilt that never quite left her, even after seventy years in Canada.
Standing here, I can almost see her, a gap-toothed little girl with braids and mud on her knees, probably getting into the same kind of scrapes as Katie Morag. Maybe she climbed thatrose trellis, or hid behind those stone walls during games of hide-and-seek.
For the first time since I stepped off the plane, I’m sure I’ve done the right thing. This trip, this crazy impulse to flee to Scotland, it was exactly what I needed. Granny would have loved knowing I came here, that I found her childhood home.
I glance around the quiet street. A few houses along, an elderly man tends his garden, and he gives me a friendly wave when he catches me looking. Everyone here really is so welcoming. Surely Douglas—that was the name Ellie said, right?—wouldn’t mind if I knocked and explained the connection. Maybe he’d even invite me in for tea, let me see what the inside looks like now.
What’s the worst that could happen? He says no, and I politely leave.
Go on, Blair. Do it.
So I walk up the short path and knock on the wooden door. The sound echoes, but no footsteps follow. I wait a moment then knock again. Nothing.
He must be out. Oh well.
I step back and pull out my phone to take a picture of the house, trying to frame the shot just like the old photo of Granny. At least I’ll have this to show Mom and Dad.
But as I’m sliding my phone back into my pocket, I can’t resist one more look. Just a quick peek through the front window—not to spy or anything, just to imagine what it might have looked like when Granny lived here. I cup my hands against the glass and lean in, trying to see past the reflection.
