Page 14 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

It was as if the last twenty-four-hour drive had happened to someone else.

Bone crunching weariness criss-crossed with a strange sense of relief.

Bronte was slumbering, in the back seat of the car, as we approached the brown tourist sign proclaiming that we’d arrived in Rowan Bay.

There were pine trees lacing each side of the road before they petered out to reveal a swell of water to the left, rippling silver in the early afternoon autumn light. Beyond that, magnificent sharp rocks erupted at every turn, making their way down to the water’s edge.

I drove on, for another couple of miles, until the centre of Rowan Bay opened out to reveal its myriad bijoux shops.

There were the usual seaside-type gift shops, selling everything from miniatures of the local lighthouse and postcards, to shell ornaments and even Rowan Bay clotted fudge. There was also the usual sprinkle of small, local supermarkets and newsagents.

Pictures of my grandparents and me meandering up this street, savouring ice cream cones, filtered through my mind like an old movie.

I clutched at the steering wheel. Even though I’d showered this morning, I felt grubby again. Well, I supposed I had been all but bathing in my own tears for the vast majority of the journey.

I hadn’t eaten properly either. Before we’d set off, I’d nibbled at the banana and taken a few, reluctant bites of the cereal bar. If Mia had seen me doing that, she’d have been horrified.

My stomach let out an irritated, hollow growl so loud, Bronte’s ears shot up. She let out an unsettled whine.

‘Aww, it’s okay, sweetheart. You’ve been such a good girl. We’re almost there.’

My grandparents’ cottage was located ten minutes’ walk away from the main street on a higher enclave, which overlooked the bay.

The famous local lighthouse was situated almost directly opposite it, and perched slightly higher up, on the ragged cliffs. I gazed at it and felt the memories flooding back. I used to love it when, as a kid, Barclay would take Grandpa and me around the lighthouse explaining all the jobs that he did inside, everything from cleaning the windows and lenses, winding the clocks and sounding the deep, loud, trumpeting fog signal, to providing technical and historical information to any curious tourists. He’d been so proud of being a lighthouse keeper and never tired of reminding anyone who cared to listen that the role ran through the Hogan family’s veins. Their DNA was virtually stamped into every crevice of Rowan Bay lighthouse.

Even though Grandpa and I had been on these excursions to the lighthouse with Barclay on numerous occasions, we never got bored. Each time he gave us a tour around the lantern room or stopped to explain how sturdy the glass storm panes were, we’d be as fascinated as if it were the first time.

‘Thank Christ there’s no bloody gift shop in here,’ he’d often say to me, gesturing around. ‘Can you imagine me selling sticks of lighthouse rock or pencils as well?’

I would sort out Bronte and then we’d go up to the lighthouse and see Barclay. I’m sure he’d be as pleased to see me as I would be to see him. I conjured up pictures of his twinkly, powder blue, lined eyes, white sweep of hair and a dashing moustache. I needed one of his fatherly hugs and to be regaled with sea-faring tall tales. Barclay Hogan was every much a part of Rowan Bay as the bay itself was, and it was such a comfort that Barclay had volunteered to look after the cottage after Grandma Tilda passed away.

My car crawled up the incline before it slid away and flattened out.

An emotional lump lodged itself in my throat and refused to budge.

Sat there on the right was the cosy, white-painted cottage, which had been home to my late grandparents for forty years, with its pillar box red front door and picket fence.

The windows were shining, but there was a stillness about the place that made my heart sag.

The last time I’d been up here had been six months ago for Grandma’s funeral.

My grandparents had visited us in London on occasion, but I think they felt that down there they were like odd pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that didn’t quite fit. They couldn’t wait to get back to their beloved Rowan Bay, with its lighthouse, dramatic sunsets and crashing waves.

It was a strange experience, just being here with Bronte. Slivers of apprehension and disbelief took over. What the hell was I doing? Had I thought this through properly? I’d jumped in my car and driven hundreds of miles, trying to escape the pain of losing Joe and what he’d done.

A mixture of loss and anger brewed inside of me again and I tried to ignore it.

I eased my car towards the cottage and looked across the way to the lighthouse, balanced on the cliff face. It stood there like one, solid, white sentry. Its dome was painted sea blue as was its panelled door. Beside it sat its various, white-painted outbuildings, which included Barclays’ living quarters, the fuel house, a boathouse and the fog signalling building, which housed the boilers needed for the loud, fog signal to operate. It was like a little world on its own up there: compact, self-contained and ready to protect the rest of us.

Despite the leaden sensation in my chest and my head screaming at me, What the hell do you think you’re doing, my mouth managed another brief smile at the thought of coming face to face with Barclay again.

I’d last seen him in person in March, when Joe and I had come up to Rowan Bay for my grandma’s funeral. Barclay had been wonderful then, hugging me, giving me a supportive shoulder to cry on and listening to my endless tales about what an enigmatic and wonderful woman Tilda had been. I remember standing outside the cottage, the hem of my black dress flapping in the sea breeze.

I craved a friendly face and a warm welcome from the memories of my past. I knew I could rely on sweet old Barclay for that.

I parked up at the side of the cottage and let a relieved Bronte out of the back seat for a run-around. Anyone would’ve thought she’d been incarcerated for the past five years, the way she was bounding about.

Below in the bay, the waves were sending white froth spraying into the air. It was comforting to know that if those white horses became untamed and started crashing against the rocks, the lighthouse beacon would come on and pepper the top of the harbour and the horizon in a comforting, bright golden light. Barclay would be doing his duty as always and help those at possible peril on the sea.