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“I think I’ve had my fill of impromptu swims in chilly water.”
Although, if I hadthisnatural source of heat at the ready, I might not even feel the cold.
“It’s deepest closest to the waterfall,” Lewis told them.
A worry line creased the center of his forehead, and I wondered how many of his clients regularly went off-script like this. I didn’t include myself in that number, since my deviation had been an accident. Normally, I was a veryon-script woman.
Harlow stood with her toes on the edge of a rock, staring into the waters below the falls. When she finally jumped, pure excitement lit her face, a picture of living in the moment. Something inside me ached for that kind of freedom, like nirvana just beyond my grasp. I hadn’t leapt at anything much since my failed attempt at self-employment, but I envied her ability to jump straight into what she wanted.
Carlos went in right after her, and they rose to the surface with huge smiles, cold but clearly satisfied. They only swam for a few minutes before climbing back out.
Arnav high-fived them. “I’ve been waiting for someone to take a dip!”
Harlow toweled off as casually as if she were at a beach back in Australia. Rupert stood with his back to her, gazing up at the Cuillin Range. I couldn’t tell if his ignorance of her near-nudity was intentional or accidental.
“No one’s ever tried to swim it before?” Harlow asked Arnav as she squeezed out her hair.
“Not on one of my guides. But I don’t always get this trip in the hottest months.”
With some careful shimmying behind their towels, Harlow and Carlos pulled their dry clothes back on. They both had a slight shiver to them, but they couldn’t stop smiling, either.
That aching sense of longing twisted deeper inside me, yearning for something perpetually out of reach.
Our group continued on up the path, slowly ascending the stony slope. Looking across the glen here was like being transported back in time. I couldn’t see a scrap of modern life—no towns or buildings, power lines or street signs—just the untouched beauty of nature. This was exactly what I’d sought out when I planned my trip. The views stunned, but the unfettered feeling of being completely liberated from my usual routine was where the real magic lay.
A shard of regret pierced my view-induced exultation. I hadn’t been liberated at all. I’d worked almost every day of my vacation in this wondrous fairyland. Well, not anymore. No more wasting this opportunity to just relax and be at peace in such an ethereal place.
I looked over at Duncan, who seemed equally taken by the scene.
No more wasting opportunities, whatever they were.
We tramped back to the mini-bus for the quick ride to a whisky distillery. I’d been sampling whiskies all week but wanted to see first-hand how the alcohol was actually made. The tour included a short history of whisky told by our host, Andrew. He made the process an interesting tale, but he knew his audience well enough to guess we were more interested in tasting whisky than hearing about it.
He led us to a room where a long table held three whiskies on display. Seven flights had been set up with small samplings of each ready to go, along with glasses of water to cleanse our palates. All we had to do was walk up and drink. Should be easy enough.
Andrew talked us through each one, guiding us on the proper way to drink whisky. It turned out I’d been doing it like an amateur all week. I knew nothing about nosing, swirling, or holding the whisky on my tongue to “listen” for flavors. I’d been to plenty of wine tastings, but I’d never developed a knack for discerning anything particular beyond the main flavors. I had no skill at recognizing notes and tones but could improvise descriptions like nobody’s business.
Turned out to be the same for whisky. According to Andrew, the first bottle was a stormy mistress with a taste for spice. Sounded terrible already. Just like he instructed, I swirled the amber contents and sniffed at it as it moved. I couldn’t pick up any distinct notes beyond the harsh scent of malt. I took a sip, and my nose crinkled automatically. This was nothing like the whiskies Duncan had picked for me. All smoky heat, with none of the light, sweet undertones of the others.
To be fair, the others had been plenty strong, too, but this took it to a whole new level.
My eyes watered as the drop of whisky burned its way down my throat. I chugged a glass of water, but it couldn’t wash away the fire.
Duncan watched me as he swirled his glass, a small smile playing on his lips. I made an exaggerated face but said nothing until Andrew had moved on to Bea and Rupert.
“Dear God,” I whispered, “and I thought gin was awful.”
“You don’t like gin?”
“Gin is like drinking perfume. This is like drinking plague.” My mouth fell open as he took another sip of his whisky. “Do you like it?”
“It’s not an everyday whisky for me, but it’s good.” My grimace only made him smile wider. “You have to work your way up to peaty Scotch.”
“I think half my taste buds just died.”
He consoled me with a pat on the back, letting his hand linger on the curve below my waist. Looking up at him, his closeness was almost enough for me to forget I’d just swallowed a corrosive liquid that was probably melting my insides.
The second whisky proved as bad as the first to my untrained palate. All burn, no flavor, full-throttle gross. Still, I smiled and nodded politely when Andrew walked by.
