Page 18 of A Scottish Island Summer

I rubbed at my face. I’d had enough of talking about camping and fauna for the time being. ‘I’ll speak to you in a bit, Justine.’ I hung up and stared down at my blank screen.

‘Everything alright, Ms Freeman?’

Iona had materialised at my shoulder, all streaming light blonde plait and concerned green gaze.

‘Not really,’ I admitted, tapping my mobile phone as if to illustrate the point. ‘I’ve been pulled into undertaking Scotland’s answer to SAS: Who Dares Wins for this sodding travel guide. And to make matters worse, my publishers have secured me Skye’s answer to Bear Grylls to help me do it.’

‘What’s his name? This guy?’ asked Iona, intrigued.

I flicked my hand. ‘Logan Burns. Do you know him?’

Iona went pink. ‘Er. Aye. Yes. I do know him, as a matter of fact.’ She beamed at me so hard I started to feel frightened. ‘Your interviews here done?’

‘Er, yes, they are…’

But she didn’t give me a chance to say anything else. Before I knew what was happening, she was making our farewells to Kyle, Laird and Arran, and bundling me out of Sparkles in the Skye. ‘Come on, Ms Freeman. My van’s parked just up the lane.’

I grabbed my coat from the top of one of the jewellery cases and jerked my hood up, as we ventured outside again. ‘Where are we going?’ I called, as Iona urged me on. ‘Where are you taking me?’

Iona reached her black and white van and yanked open the passenger side door.

‘Didn’t you lock it?’ I asked her.

‘No need. Trustworthy folks round here.’

I raised my brows and clambered into the passenger seat, almost getting struck in the face by one of the dreamcatchers suspended from her rearview mirror.

We sped off down Portree High Street, zipping past shops and cosy tea rooms.

‘We’ll soon be there.’ She grinned across at me. ‘Enjoy the scenery in the meantime.’

I stared out of the passenger side window. ‘I would if I could see it. This rain is horrific.’

Iona slipped me a smile. ‘You’ll learn to love Skye. Everybody falls for her. You just have to open your heart.’

The only way I was prepared to open my heart to the place was via urgent and unavoidable open-heart surgery, but I kept that thought to myself. She was a sweet girl and despite being rather disorganised, I was beginning to like her. But as for me liking this place, she was utterly deluded.

Hills dipped and weaved on either side of the road, the land dotted with wet heather and heavy, jutting rocks that shot up ahead of us, like sentries.

‘In the distance, you’ll see the Cuillins,’ explained Iona, indicating the range of mountains in the distance. ‘One range is known as the Black Cuillin and the other is the Red Cuillin.’

I examined the imposing craggy faces of bare rock. They were like a huge, jagged knife running along the moody skyline. Steep cliffs plunged downwards and deep gullies could be seen against the dark, imposing silhouettes.

‘Black Cuillin is the UK’s most challenging mountain range to climb.’

‘Yes. Well, I’m not keen on heights, so I won’t be venturing up there.’

Iona smiled over. ‘The Black Cullin is what’s left of a huge volcano.’

We ventured on, with Iona chattering away about the beauty of the seasons on Skye and its wildflowers. Then she indicated right and pulled into a grassy layby at the foot of the Hills. It looked over a patchwork quilt of fields.

I did feel rather insignificant against the dominating mountain range. It was very impressive.

She parked up beside a battered old Dodge truck in bottle green.

I struggled out of Iona’s van. ‘Is this some sort of mystery tour? Or have you kidnapped me?’

‘No.’ Iona laughed, bubbling with excitement. ‘Neither of those. We’re almost there.’