Page 84 of Journey to the Scottish Highlands

I turned the bend, and the sign for Strath Ross erupted out of the grass verge on the left-hand side.

My heart gave a little skip of delight. London seemed so far away with its hustle and bustle.

Instead of the Bohemian chic of Notting Hill and the endless streaks of red buses, I was confronted by the sight of the familiar, little, white, stippled cottages strung along the edges of the fields and forestry.

An osprey dangled above the hills, like a brown and gold kite bobbing in mid-air.

Strath Ross was a quaint little town, still stuck in the nineteenth century, but I loved it like that.

It had a small post office, a doctor and dentist, a newsagent and a sprinkling of independent shops. It was hemmed in on all sides by farms and banks of trees.

I drove on past a couple of old barns and grinning rickety fences, which reminded me of weathered teeth in the hazy afternoon sun.

Then I took a left down the snaking gravelled path towards my grandparents’ house where I’d grown up.

I smiled as Marlene’s wheels crunched on the crumbly stone path that led down to the house, remembering the times when I was a kid and I would roll down the lush, green banks of grass on the left-hand side, with my grandparents rolling their eyes and laughing at me through the kitchen window.

In the winter, the three of us would build a portly, slightly off-kilter snowman, and he’d perch there on top of the hill, a sentry on duty in one of Grandpa’s checked flat caps and Grandma’s woollen scarves.

In autumn, I would kick the leaves and then help Grandpa to sweep them up. Our hard work would be rewarded by Grandma, who would present us with her delicious hot chocolate whipped up with fresh Scottish cream and drizzled with marshmallows.

They’d taken on the roles of my mum and dad with relish. Even now, my mother still wasn’t a solid presence in my life. Even though she only lived in the next town, she was still absent, and that was fine. I’d accepted it, and although there was still a sliver of resentment that would sting me whenever I thought about what she and my dad had done, I knew I wouldn’t have had the wonderful life I did if it weren’t for my grandma and grandpa stepping up. I would never have been this happy.

Emotion clogged my throat as I stared out of the windscreen, Marlene’s engine still purring.

I eased her to a stop just a few feet away from the tomato-red front door.

No sooner had I climbed out and savoured the familiar tang of earth and dry bark than my grandpa tugged open the door and burst out. ‘Och, look at you, Daisy Dewdrop. You’re a sight for sore eyes.’

I ran up to him and threw my arms around him in a fierce hug. There was a hint of woodsmoke in the air.

Grandpa took a step backwards in his tartan slippers and studied me out of his smoky grey eyes. His mouth melted under his white, pencil-thin moustache. His snowy hair was slicked back. ‘You get bonnier every time I see you. Just like your grandma at that age.’

I laughed. ‘And your patter never changes, Grandpa.’

I pulled my bag from the passenger seat and collected my case from the boot. Grandpa ushered me inside. It still smelled like home.

The cottage was the same. From its polished, hardwood beams to the amber, linoleum floor in the kitchen and the tall, glass cabinet in the sitting room, housing my grandma’s treasured collection of porcelain wild birds, it reminded me a little of The Ramblings on a smaller scale, with its memories, characters and history imprinted on its heart.

The modest garden was brimming with paintbox-coloured potted flowers and shrubs, and the lawn looked like it had just been mowed. Grandpa had been flexing his gardening talents again.

Photos of the three of us, or The Three Musketeers as my grandma used to call us, were dotted all around the sitting room. Her serene smile shone out at me. My heart sagged in my chest. Come on, Daisy. No bringing the mood down!

‘So,’ I said in a bright voice. Grandpa was already filling the teapot at the kitchen sink. My grandma’s two aprons still hung from the back of the door, and her favourite mug, imprinted with sunflowers, sat on the windowsill. ‘What would you like me to make us for dinner?’

Grandpa turned around with a mischievous glint. ‘You’ll be pleased to know I’ve been shopping.’

‘Ok.’

‘And I got…’

‘A chicken?’ I supplied, folding my arms in a jokey manner. ‘And let me guess, Maris Piper potatoes for roasting, sprouts, parsnips, carrots and Yorkshire puddings?’

‘I might have done.’

I raised my brows at him.

‘Aye. Alright. You guessed correctly.’