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* * *
Max
After our blowout meal, we eschew a leisurely drive back to Grant House. Cress seems resigned to miss the visit to Robert the Bruce’s grave at Dunfermline Abbey, and the chance to tour Scone and Stirling castles.
“We’ll be back and those places are going anywhere. I want to know about all those yellow flowers.” she says, pressing her nose to the window glass.
“Gorse,” comes from everyone.
“Really? I’ve seen it referred to in books, but I never knew what it looked like. It’s beautiful.”
“Smells like coconut and vanilla. Maybe the scent wouldn’t be too much of a problem,” I say.
We stop soon after for Dad to have a bit of a walk and a stretch. These long drives are murder but the train from Edinburgh would be so crowded that he wouldn’t have been able to move anyway.
Cress is drawn to a huge patch of gorse.
“Careful,” I call after her. “The thorns are wicked.”
She starts to sneeze and, fumbling for tissues in her pocket, rushes back to the van. “It may smell like coconut and vanilla, but it still causes a reaction.”
I love her enchantment with the spectacular scenery of the Cairngorms as the mountains flit past our windows. I point out the many distilleries we won’t be able to try, at least not today. As we near Grant House, Castle Grant, Ballindaloch, and Muckrach Castle—all properties belonging to members of the clan—come into view.
The clan chief no longer lives at Castle Grant, which is now a tourist attraction. Muckrach is a self-catering venue built in the late sixteenth century by Patrick Grant, the son of John Grant of Freuchie. A distant cousin lives at Ballindaloch. They are planning a distillery on the grounds, yet another Grant whisky producer.
A pack of dogs greets our entrance, along with the housekeeper, Mrs. MacDonald. She tries, ineffectually, to shoo them away, finally giving up with a huff. “Come along in. I have tea laid on in the lounge.”
The dogs, far more energetic than we are, gambol around our feet, tripping Cress up. I hold on to her arm to make sure she doesn’t fall.
“I didn’t know your parents had so many dogs,” she mutters.
Dad laughs. “We only have two. The rest belong to Frank and Liz and Les and Diana.”
Once seated, the dogs form a semicircle around Cress. “I think they want an introduction.” Her eyes are gleaming with delight.
Mum points to her borzoi. “This is Prince. My darling boy. The gray around his muzzle shows he is no longer young.” A shadow crosses her eyes, but she recovers quickly. The yellow Lab is Brian’s dog, Bristol. Only two and frisky.”
Sean grabs the Scottish terrier, who sports a collar in the Grant tartan. “This is our dog, Laddie. He’s only two.” The dog puts up with cuddling for about half a second.
The other dogs are a gaggle of cocker spaniels, excitedly jumping up and down against Cress’ legs. Liz smiles indulgently. “Four puppies for four sprogs.”
We tuck into high tea, more like dinner than the afternoon tea most people think of and follow up with some good whisky. Dad regales us with family stories, making each of us blush in turn as he delights Cress with our misadventures and misbehaviors, until we’re all trying to hide yawns behind our hands.
“I wish I could give you a tour tonight, Cress,” Mum tells her. “But we have all had a long day. Besides, it will be better to examine everything in the daylight, so I will show you around after breakfast.” She gets up and stretches. “Time for bed. We will have brunch about ten. Good sleep everyone.”
Dad shuffles out and I grab Mum’s arm. “Is Dad doing all right?”
“Tired, and his angina waxes and wanes, but the doctor says he’s still got a lot of life in him. Can’t do the late nights too often any more, but he’s so glad you’re all home.” She pecks my cheek and follows him out.
I take Cress upstairs to my old bedroom, bookshelves filled with Matchbox race cars, and models I built myself. There are rugby trophies and a few framed jerseys next to my diplomas and family pictures. The bedding is the ubiquitous Grant tartan. Two large casement windows face out onto the grounds, bathing us in moonlight.
I take Cress in my arms and kiss her over and over. Then we crawl into bed and fall asleep nestled together.
* * *
Our small clan has assembled for Sunday morning brunch. When Cress and I walk into the dining room, everyone but Dad has already gathered.
“Sorry we’re late,” I lean down to give Mum a kiss.
