— Let’s just say I won’t be dethroning the reigning champion anytime soon, I say. But I haven’t given up yet.
— That’s the spirit! Ewan exclaims. Now let’s try something that requires more agility than strength—the sack race!
The sack race is exactly what it sounds like—running while trapped waist-deep in a burlap sack. It seems simple. In theory. Reality is… different.
I line up with several other participants, including Keira and a few McGregor cousins I vaguely recognize. Callum stands near the finish line judge, giving me an encouraging nod.
— Ready? the judge calls. Go!
I launch forward—or try to. My first few hops are promising, but on the third, I lose my balance and go down spectacularly, taking the cousin next to me with me. We end up tangled in a mess of limbs and burlap as the others race past.
— Sorry! Sorry! I gasp, trying to untangle myself.
— No problem, he replies in such a thick accent I barely understand him. It’s a sack race, not a ballet.
We manage to get back up and continue, more or less. I finish second to last, just ahead of a man so elderly he might have competed in the original Highland Games. But strangely, I don’t feel humiliated. The mood is light, everyone is laughing—including me—and several people clap me on the back for finishing despite my fall.
Even Isobel seems slightly less stern when she tells me:
— That was brave, Jane. Few outsiders join in with that much enthusiasm.
Coming from her, that’s practically a declaration of eternal love.
— Thank you, I say, surprised. I’m doing my best.
— That’s clear, she says before moving off to congratulate the winner.
Ewan returns, holding two glasses of amber liquid.
— A little something to lift your spirits, he says, handing me one. You’re doing well.
— I’m embarrassing myself—but enthusiastically, I correct, taking the glass. What is it?
— Whisky, of course. The official drink of brave losers and humble winners.
I take a sip and barely grimace, which surprises even me. It seems my palate is getting used to this fiery Scottish drink.
— What’s next? I ask, oddly energized despite my disastrous performance.
— Archery, he announces. An essential skill for any self-respecting Scottish lady.
— Really? I have a hard time picturing Heather or Isobel doing archery.
— You’d be surprised, he says with a grin. Isobel was a regional champion in her youth. And Callum’s grandmother? I’d bet she could still hit an apple from fifty yards.
That revelation surprises me—and makes me see these women in a whole new light. Maybe beneath their polished, traditional appearances are Scottish versions of Wonder Woman.
Ewan leads me to the archery range, where several targets are set up at different distances. I notice Heather already there, bow in hand, posed like she’s starring in a luxury ad campaign. Of course she does archery. Probably since she was three, raised by professional archers and blessed by Cupid himself.
— Oh, Jane! she exclaims with fake surprise. You’re going to try archery? How… brave of you.
Her tone suggests she finds it more ridiculous than brave. I’m pretty sure she’d react the same way if I announced I wasabout to juggle flaming chainsaws (real ones, not the plastic movie prop kind).
— Indeed, Heather, I reply with an equally fake smile. I’m trying to fully embrace the family culture.
— Admirable, truly, she says, drawing her bow with the ease of someone who’s trained for years.
She releases, and her arrow lands just shy of the center. Polite applause follows.
