Page 31 of A Scottish Island Summer

‘Now you’re just being stupid.’

I tossed my ponytail back over my shoulder. Sarcastic sod!

‘So, what’s so special about this beach then?’

Logan’s eyes locked with mine. ‘See for yourself.’

I began recording with the camera, making verbal notes so I had material and facts to refer to when it came to writing the travel guide. ‘It’s a cloudy March lunchtime here on Skye and today, I’m making my way down to Coral Beach.’ I angled my camera and swept down in the direction of the beach. ‘Coral Beach…’ My voice disappeared into the wind.

There was a long, wide smile of what looked like pale gold sand, lapped by endless navy-blue water.

It was only as we approached that I noticed that it wasn’t sand.

‘It’s crushed, bleached skeletons of Red Coralline seaweed,’ said Logan, as though reading my thoughts.

My walking boots scrunched down on the multi-coloured, crunchy bed.

‘It grows out on the reef by the island of Lampay.’

Logan beckoned me on.

I raised my camera again, scanning the tumble of lemon, white and ice blue shells. It was as though a painter had used a palette of his best pastel paints to create the scene and using his paintbrush, swept the colours this way and that.

After a few stunned moments, I attempted to compose in my head what I was going to say next as I prepared to record more images. But the lure of the shades of tossed shells, was distracting me. It was gorgeous; I’d never seen anything like it before.

‘Be careful of the rabbit holes,’ he warned, breathing in the tangy sea air. ‘I don’t want you breaking an ankle.’

Unable to answer, I swung my camera around, capturing the myriad of shells and the swish of the water.

‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ he asked, giving me a long look.

I didn’t say anything for a long time. I was too busy drinking in the skyline and the pastel, crunchy carpet beneath my feet. ‘Yes,’ I faltered, with a slow smile. ‘It’s stunning.’

Logan glanced down at his chunky wristwatch. ‘Right. Let’s go and find somewhere to set up the tents and then we can have lunch.’ The corners of his mouth flickered. ‘That’s unless you want to head back and say hi to old Rusty again?’

* * *

The afternoon vanished in a haze of studying the contents of the nearby rock pools, making more recordings of the spectacular scenery, which had caught me off-guard, and dealing with Logan’s teasing.

He rustled up chicken burgers for lunch on his camping stove, complete with crunchy salad and juicy tomatoes, all sandwiched in soft, doughy bread rolls.

Justine would’ve been appalled at the way I’d devoured my food. But boy, did it taste incredible! All the walking and the fresh air seemed to enhance my appetite and the flavours.

We spent the next few hours taking photos and meandering further up the beach, before it was time to start thinking about setting up camp for the night. I was dreading it.

Logan had suggested a place on a nearby grassy incline and once we were sorted, I watched the flaps of our tents ripple in the stiff sea wind.

After a dinner of chicken and prawn stir fry Logan assembled a small campfire, which crackled and spat. ‘Are your parents supportive of your career?’ he asked me.

I shifted my attention to the horizon. The water was rising in peaks and troughs of navy blue. The rose gold sky was gone, replaced by a thick cloak of black velvet, and stars shone down. All you could hear was the whispering rush of the North Atlantic on the shoreline.

‘My parents passed away four years ago,’ I managed, the words sticking in my throat. ‘Within a matter of months of each other. They went everywhere together. Really devoted to each other.’

Logan closed his eyes for a few seconds. ‘Shit. Sorry, Darcie.’

I managed a wobbly smile. ‘I’ve still got my aunt and uncle. They’re great and have been such a support to me.’

I wanted to shift the conversation onto something else. Anything else. I hated talking about myself, revealing things that might encourage people to try and peel back more of my layers.