— In some circles, it might, he chuckles. But today, we’re focusing on the real ones. Let’s start with something simple.
“Simple” turns out to be a heavy metal weight attached to a chain that I’m supposed to swing over my head before launching it as far as possible. My first attempt is a disaster. I barely manage one rotation before releasing it too early, sending it straight into a muddy puddle about six feet away.
— Not bad for a first try, Ewan lies with heroic optimism. Let’s go again.
The second attempt is worse. The weight slips out of control mid-swing and flies off in the opposite direction, narrowly missing a flock of birds that scatter in alarm. An elderly woman watches me with an expression that suggests she’s reconsidering the future of the McGregor lineage if I’m its newest representative.
— Maybe we should try something else, Ewan suggests diplomatically. The caber toss might be more your thing.
I stare at him, trying to decide if he’s joking.
He’s not.
— You want me to throw a tree trunk? A real tree trunk? Me, who can’t even open a jar of pickles?
— That’s the beauty of the Highland Games, Ewan says enthusiastically. They push you beyond your limits. And we’ll start with a small one.
The “small” one turns out to be a log roughly my height and probably my weight. I look at it, then at Ewan.
— You’re kidding, right?
— Not at all! he says. It’s not about distance—it’s about technique. You want it to land straight, at twelve o’clock.
— At twelve o’clock, I repeat, as if that somehow makes this less absurd. Of course.
I notice we now have an audience. Several members of the McGregor family—including, of course, Isobel and Maggie—have gathered to watch. Heather is there too, stunning in a country-chic outfit that looks straight out of a fashion spread. I also spot Callum returning, his expression caught somewhere between anticipation and concern.
Perfect. Just what I needed—an audience for my impending humiliation.
— Ignore them, Ewan murmurs. Focus on the technique. Feet shoulder-width apart, back straight…
I try to follow his instructions, gripping the log the way he showed me. My arms immediately protest under the weight.
— Now lift, build momentum, and… throw!
Taking a deep breath, I summon every ounce of strength I have and execute what must be the most pathetic caber toss in Highland Games history. The log barely clears my head before crashing down behind me, dragging me down with it. I end up flat on my back in the grass, staring up at the Scottish sky, wondering if this is how my brief career as a Highlander ends.
Laughter erupts around me, but it doesn’t sound mocking. More amused—almost fond. Ewan appears above me.
— That was… a start, he says diplomatically.
He offers me a hand.
— A disastrous start, I correct, taking it.
— Disaster is part of the learning process, he assures me. You should’ve seen Callum when he started. Nearly knocked out the pastor on his first try.
— Really? I ask, suddenly intrigued.
— Oh yes. Old McPherson had to dive to the ground to avoid a flying caber headed straight for him. Callum was mortified.
The image of my usually composed husband like that makes me laugh, easing some of my embarrassment.
— What’s so funny? Callum asks, joining us.
— Nothing at all, Ewan says innocently. Just reminding Jane that everyone starts somewhere.
— Hmm, Callum replies, suspicious. How’s it going?
