Page 49 of A Scottish Island Summer

Chapter Eleven

After a bracing early walk around the nature trail, serenaded by birds and with lashings of pine trees, we stopped at a small snack truck by the side of the road.

We demolished a scrambled egg roll each, followed by a mug of tea, before Logan informed me that we’d be going to a place called The Fairy Pools next.

It was around a thirty-five-minute drive to get there, but the time evaporated as we chatted. I realised I’d been too busy talking to Logan to pay as much attention to my phone as I usually would have.

We clambered out of the truck and I was greeted by scenery which wouldn’t have looked out of place in The Hobbit. Majestic hillsides, bottle-green grass, mirrored water… I breathed in the tangy, sunshine-filled air.

My brain was still trying to reconcile that only hours ago, Logan and I had charged back to Portree to check on Rock God, only to find a poor down-and-out man who’d been admiring Logan’s window display—at least, that was his story.

What with our dolphin rescue yesterday, the last few days here on Skye had been anything but boring.

I still hankered after the buzz and bustle of London, the flash of red buses, honking taxis and people haphazardly crossing the streets, I reassured myself. Of course I did.

But Skye was proving to be a lot less mundane than I’d imagined.

And as for the scenery, it was a kaleidoscope of colours and atmosphere that I’d never seen the likes of before. The soaring mountains and myriad shades of green, icy blue and rich mauve were hypnotic.

Only another two and a half weeks here and I’d be returning to the city with its white stucco buildings, stream of noise and endless, snaking shop windows.

‘Darcie! Are you going to start recording and taking some photos, or are you going to daydream for the rest of the morning?’

‘What? Oh. Yes. Sorry.’

I angled my camera, capturing the rush of the waterfalls in front of me.

Logan pointed at them. ‘They’re a series of rock pools and waterfalls, which are fed by tributaries of the River Brittle.’

I panned round again, capturing Logan to the side, while he trailed his fingers under the magical curtains of water. ‘The Fairy Pools here have another name,’ he explained to me through my camera. ‘In Gaelic, they’re called Allt Coir a Mhadouidh, which translates as “burn of the wolf”.’

I found my attention lingering a little too long on Logan and jerked my gaze back onto the scenery.

‘The Fairy Pools are overlooked by the Cuillin mountains,’ continued Logan. ‘This area is popular with walkers and tourists.’

He dazzled down the lens at me. ‘Some brave souls take a swim in the chilly waters here, even on a winter’s day.’ He grinned. ‘Can I tempt you, Darcie?’

I experienced an excited shiver. Was he doing this flirty thing deliberately? ‘No, thanks. I’m not stopping you, though.’

‘OK.’

And with that, Logan began to rip off his fleece, t-shirt and canvas trousers.

I fumbled with my camera. My fingers suddenly felt too big for my hands. ‘What are you doing?’

‘What does it look like I’m doing? I’m going for a dip.’

My eyes burned into Logan’s sculpted muscles as he tossed his clothes onto a nearby rock. He whipped off his socks, leaving himself standing there in just a pair of toffee and white striped boxers.

There was a smattering of dark brown hair on his chest and arms. He had strong, defined calves. Footballer’s legs.

I spotted him grin as I whirled away, turning my back to him. What was I doing?

I fought to rearrange my flushed expression. I’d morphed into some Victorian lady. Get a grip, Darcie! I made myself turn around again, just in time to see Logan slip into one of the pools of swishing, icy-looking water.

He let out a series of comical gasps and noises, but once he grew a little more accustomed to the chilly Scottish temperature of the water, he ducked his head under.

A few seconds later, he resurfaced.