Page 9 of Winter Magic at Hollybrae Castle

‘Oh, no, of course not, just a turn of phrase, lassie. He’s very nice, is young Ollie. Are you staying long?’ The driver opens the boot and heaves my suitcase and holdall bag out for me.

‘I’m here to decorate for Christmas…’

‘Are you indeed?’ he says in a way that makes me wonder if I should have said that, because it will probably not remain between us. Although, if there are any locals who might be interested, I’ve yet to see them. ‘Been many a year since this place had a Christmas at all, let alone any decorations.’

Has it? I’m intrigued about what he means and why that might be…

‘What do I owe you?’ I take my suitcase and haul the bag over my shoulder.

‘Oh, no, all paid for in advance.’

When I go to get my purse out for a tip, he stops me. ‘Tipped in advance too, don’t you worry about that.’

‘Thanks,’ I say in surprise. I hadn’t expected Oliver to go that far in arranging my travel expenses, and it reiterates my feeling that he must be a real gentleman.

The taxi driver toots as he pulls away and I stand in the gateway and look up at the awe-inspiring building in front of me.

Honey-coloured sandstone with an imposing curved frieze above the entranceway, ornate stone-carved scrollwork and decorative finials on the rooftop. Everything about it speaks of craftsmanship from a bygone era. Sweeping curvatures of bay windows and tall chimney stacks really do make it look like something from a Disney film. The most impressive part is still the tower in the centre with its conical wizard’s hat roof and, near the top, a parapet balcony that makes me think of fair maidens singing lullabies and looking out to sea, a vantage point on the world below.

I can see why Oliver described it as cosy for a castle. It’s small, by castle standards. Three storeys of windows surrounded by Gothic pointed arches. The whole place is a contrast of light glass and heavy stone, but the warm glow from inside softens its intimidating silhouette.

The tarmacked drive winds between shaped beds of neatly trimmed grass. To one side of the gates is a gravel parking area with one sensible-looking black car parked. A centrepiece alongside the drive is a huge flowing fountain. I drag my suitcase towards it, listening to the burble of the running water, which is the only noise of any kind. I can’t remember the last time I was anywhere so silent.

I still want to pinch myself. This is too extraordinary to be real, and I’m convinced that someone’s going to wake me up at any moment. It makes me want to spin around in circles and scream delight into the wilderness. I muffle the squeal, but even on a chilly late-November day, the fountain is crying out to have fingers splashed through the running water, and I can’t resist the urge. I let my suitcase stand and turn around, appreciating the view of wintery hills in front of me, the castle behind, the distant churn of the sea from somewhere beyond.

I know that the next month will be a million times better than December at Calloways, and I give in to the urge to let my childish side out as I spin around in giddy circles and run my hands through the babble of water. I’ve never been anywhere that had a fountain in the courtyard before, especially one that’s big enough to paddle in, should the urge strike, and if I was here in the summer then it very well might do.

I can already picture it filled with pebble lights glowing through the water, lit up to greet visitors for Christmas.

I’ve made myself dizzy and it really is too cold to have sploshed around this much water, so I compose myself and grab my suitcase like a sensible adult and continue walking up the long driveway.

The entrance is something else. A set of stone steps lead to a deep, shadow-filled porch, held up by wide pillars carved with tangled vines that are so realistic, I imagine they could grow in the summer. It’s an entrance that leads to a history of grand balls, ticking grandfather clocks, and hidden libraries. Outside is the only bit of festivity I’ve seen so far, in the form of a giant eight-foot-tall nutcracker, standing like a sentry at one side of the huge wooden doors.

‘Maybe you’re the lord of the manor, hmm?’ I say to it as I look around for a doorbell, but there’s only a lion-headed knocker that genuinely does seem to be the only way of knocking.

‘Maybe I am.’

Oh, the scream I scrumpt. I dive back so fast that I nearly fall down the steps in case the nutcracker really did answer, although I’m reasonably sure the nutcracker wouldn’t have an accent that nice.

There’s a flash of movement above me and an upstairs window closes as someone disappears back inside, and moments later, the heavy doors creak open and the man I spoke to yesterday appears, even though yesterday feels like it was weeks ago at this point, and I can’t believe that I left London only this morning when I feel like I’ve been travelling for days.

‘You made it!’ A wide smile brightens his face and I feel that sense of being genuinely welcome again.

Even having spoken to him on a video call, I was unprepared for how gorgeous he is in person. Handsome enough to make you lose your breath in one glance. If they say the camera adds ten pounds, in his case it takes away a few feet of height and blurs his attractiveness. Nothing prepares me for the immensely tall, immensely gorgeous man standing in the doorway.

‘I did,’ I stutter, breathless from… well, probably the shock of thinking the nutcracker spoke rather than simply from how gorgeous he is.

On the video call, I couldn’t see the smile lines around his mouth or the crows’ feet that crinkle up at the edges of his blue-grey eyes. His mid-brown hair is sticking out in unstyled directions today, and he’s wearing black jogging bottoms with a navy and light blue striped T-shirt and a cream-coloured chunky-knit hooded cardigan open over the top.

‘Hi. I’m Oliver Bracewell.’ He holds a hand out for me to shake, and before I have a chance, he hesitates. ‘It’s Ollie, please. Oliver is for work – friends call me Ollie.’

I’m reassured that he seems nervous too, because this has suddenly become real. I am actually here. I’ve committed to spending December in a castle on the remotest edge of Britain with a complete stranger. A brief moment of ‘what am I thinking?’ rushes through my head, along with Mira’s disapproving face, and I force myself to stamp it down.

‘And I’m… wet.’ I pull my hand back quickly and wipe them both off on my jacket. ‘Sorry, I got carried away when I saw the fountain.’

He smiles. ‘It’s nice to see someone appreciating it. It’s been a long time since I spun in circles and splashed my hands through the fountain.’

‘Oh, you were watching that. Great.’