by kc dyer
“It’sh only once a week, now though. Off sheason.” She pointed the finger at me again. “Are ye comin’ out to join us this week, then? We could use the coin.”
Both sets of eyes turned to me, but the coherence that had returned with the beer dousing had begun to fade. “I—I’m not sure …” I began.
“Jeremy’s here, Hamish.”
It was the blonde girl. Laoghaire. Laurie. My head was spinning with beer and tiredness.
“Just texted, he’s stopped out front. We’ve got to be off.”
The cute guy’s face fell. “Ach thought we were stayin’ for the karaoke,” he said, patting his pocket. “Ah’ve got mah set list all ready—Mellencamp, The Boss, Marvin Gaye.”
He leaned against my arm. “No one can beat my version of ‘Sexual Healing,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.
My internal organs rearranged themselves spontaneously.
“I’d—I’d like to hear that,” I managed.
Laurie tucked her arm under one of Eilidh’s and gazed impassively at me.
The cute guy—Hamish—shot me a crinkled, perfect and slightly regretful grin as he stood up. “Lovely talkin’ to yeh,” he said. “But I need to hop this pink Cadillac. I’d stop longer, but it’s my only hope of a ride north, sadly.”
My brain and body began to work in concert at last. “You’re not leaving?” I began, but he didn’t hear me.
He took Eilidh’s free arm and circled around to lead her toward the door.
“Hitchin’ a ride,” she sang into his face, and giggled.
“Nice to meet you,” I called out, a little desperately. I tried to get to my own feet, but my stool was jammed in behind the no-longer-wobbly table.
The blonde shot me a look over her shoulder at the sound of my voice. “Another American, eh, Hamish?”
She and Eilidh roared with laughter as they stepped out onto the street.
And that’s how I met—and lost—my Jamie Fraser on the very first day in Scotland.
Fumbling Fraser…
9:00 am, Feb 27
Somewhere in the wilds of Scotland, North of Edinburgh
As you can see from the header, I’ve not quite made it to Inverness yet. As it turned out, the cheapest bus ticket to Inverness is what you might call a milk run. We stop at sixteen hamlets along the way. Choosing to look at the bright side, however, this allows me the opportunity to use the Wi-Fi provided on the CityLink bus and post to my blog.
I’ve also got the freedom to gaze out the window in search of red-heided warriors, and try not to think too hard about the one I met so briefly in Edinburgh.
It is to weep.
- ES
Comments: 43
HiHoKitty, Sapporo, Japan:
Miss Emma! How can you not say the whole story? Agony in my heart!
Burns’ Bairns, Victoria, CA:
Checking in at a very late hour from the Wet Coast of Canada to cheer you on, Emma. Our poetry collective are all huge Jamie and Claire fans. Last night we toasted your journey with a dram and the leftover haggis from Burn’s Night. Slainte!
(Read 41 more comments here…)
It had been pitch dark as I made my way along the street to the bus station the morning after losing my Fraser. Turned out there was a direct train from Waverly, Edinburgh’s main train station, but at double the price of the bus ride, and after an unplanned two-night stay in Edinburgh, my finances were feeling stretched. Heading north at seven am by bus was my only option if I wanted to make it all the way while it was still daylight. When I checked the map, it looked like a fairly short distance compared to the journey from Chicago to New York. But even with no stops along the way, it would still be nearly a four-hour trip.
I slumped into my seat and dozed for a while, and then surfaced long enough to post the brief note to my blog. I tried several times to find the words to write more, but they just wouldn’t come. The truth was, I mostly mulled over the loss of the cute guy. Already, in my mind’s eye, I could see his face bathed in a kind of golden glow. Fair hair just verging on scruffy, and his crinkly smile as he sat down to talk with me. Apart from the whole blonde highlights thing, he was physically very similar to Jamie.
Kind. Considerate. Very, very cute. A spasm of something akin to pain shot through me at the thought that I hadn’t even offered to stay connected by email.
I mean—it’s not like I was about to hand him my card.
But there in the cold, hard light of a Scottish spring morning, on the bouncy back seat of a CityLink transit bus, the memory of the fleeting feel of those long, square fingers as they brushed mine was still enough to make my knees weak. I stared out the window into the darkness, feeling my face suffuse with heat. Get a hold of yourself, Sheridan.
The bus shuddered and lurched around a corner, and slowed to a stop at the on-ramp to the freeway – the MOTORway.
He was just a nice young man, welcoming a visitor to his country, I thought, brooding.
With his well-muscled forearms.
Reaching down, I yanked my pack onto my knees. I needed to think of something else. Time to look at the map again. I had just pulled out my copy of OUTLANDER from the bottom of the front pocket, when I felt someone slide into the seat beside me.
A merry face, creased as an old tortoise and topped with a greasy brown abomination of a hat, smiled into mine.
“Here from awa’?” he inquired, indicating the map inside the book with a nod and gently spraying my face with spittle.
I nodded back and fished a suspiciously crumpled napkin from my pocket to use when the old fellow turned away.
He didn’t.
I smiled damply back at him, and scrunched a little further down into my seat as he began to stub his thick finger onto locations on the map and narrate the entire history of Scotland, beginning with the Picts.
Inverness in February is … well, safe to say it’s pretty gray. Strangely enough, it was not terribly cold. Not seventeen-blocks-in-wintery-Philadelphia cold, at least. But now that I knew the complete history of the place from its role as an early stronghold of the Picts, through the likely-less-evil-than-Will-Shakespeare-would-have-had-you-believe reign of MacBeth, to the current standing of the Caley Thistle football club, it almost felt like I was returning home.
My seatmate, Alan MacLeod by name, squeezed my shoulder fondly as the bus slowed to a halt outside a downtown hotel.
“Ye know where to find me, lass, if ye have any questions. And mind ye keep that wee card…” he nodded at the scrap of paper I had safely clutched in one hand. “Jes’ gi’ us a call if ye need transport anywhere, mind. As I tole’ ye, mah youngest son’s got a Triumph he’s fair proud of, and he hires himself out all the time ta tourists in the season who need tae get to the golf links hereabouts.”
“Thank you, Mr. MacLeod. I’ll remember that.”
He reached a hand up to grasp the seat back, and groaned as he hauled himself to his feet, but the pretty much tooth-free smile never left his face. “Ach, it’s just Al, lassie, or Alan if yer feelin’ formal. Call anytime, love.”
And with that, he stumped off up the aisle of the bus to the front door. I glanced down at the card in my hand. Alec MacLeod, it said. Hired Car Service, Inverness-shire. Taxi, weddings, evenings out. No trip too small!
Could Alan’s taxi-driving son be another possible Jamie? I tucked the card into my pack and followed him off the bus.
Further Fieldwork…
5:00 pm, February 27
Inverness, Scotland
Arrived safely in Inverness.
The trip was much less eventful than earlier bus journeys, thankfully. I had a very informative seatmate who ensured I will never confuse Jacobians with followers of anyone but King James again! Perhaps the history lesson has cured me of my fear of traveling? I think it more likely that now I am here, in beautiful wintery Scotland, my sense of adventure has stepped back into the lead.
Thanks to all who wrote such kind comments about my time in Edinburgh.
Many of you are worried I met and lost my Jamie Fraser on the first day in Scotland, and that I will quit trying. I want to set your minds at ease.
First of all, the man I met was blonder than Jamie. He might have been roughly the same size, and was quite kind and friendly——but——but, he’s gone, okay? He’s too blonde and he’s gone and I have no idea where he lives. Think of him as a practice Jamie. I’m moving on, and I hope you’ll do the same.
For now, I turn my attention to Inverness, the land of Frank and Claire’s second honeymoon. The true beginning point of Claire’s story. A chance for me to find the stones she walked through.
I promise to report in!
- ES
Comments: 15
MagischeSteinkraus, Berlin, Deutchland:
Sounds like a good German boy. Hier finden Sie ein weiteres Jamie!
HiHoKitty, Sapporo, Japan:
Did false-Jamie wear kilt, Miss Emma? How you find REAL Jamie?
KnittersNotQuitters, Corner Brook, NL&L, Canada:
Huge Claire and Jamie fans here in the wilds of Newfoundland. Hoping you find your boy, and knitting up a special scarf in honour of your journey!
SophiaSheridan, Chicago, USA:
I just want you to know that, of all the humiliations you have foisted on this family, this is the greatest. I only hope and pray our parents stay ignorant of this little experiment until it dies a righteous and terrible death.
(Read 11 more comments here…)
I tried to ignore Sophia’s comment and focus on all the others cheering me on. But it was hard. Mostly because she was right. This was an exercise in public humiliation, no doubt. But it was far less painful than Internet dating had been. There, I’d even had to put a picture of myself online, and answer hideously embarrassing questions for the whole world to see. The whole dating world, anyway. In the end, all I got out of it was a husband who lasted just over a year—two, if you count the cyber-courtship period.
But it got me thinking. Until then, I’d thought of my blog as little more than an online diary of an adventure. Reading all the comments, though… HiHoKitty was certainly taking me seriously. And from what I’d learned from Genesie, nothing could be more serious to a knitter than designing a pattern.
It kinda blew my mind. If the blog was giving inspiration to others to go out and follow their dreams too—what could be the harm in that? Maybe it was time I started to take it more seriously.
So I pushed Sophia’s voice to the back of my head and spent the next two weeks exploring every nook and cranny of Inverness.
I prowled through the quiet aisles of St. Andrew’s Cathedral, with its strangely capped spires and beautiful stained glass. I laughed at the practical Scots, converting the rusty red Inverness Castle into contemporary use as a Sherriff’s court. I spent days wandering the winding streets, in the rain and sleet, peering into the windows of tiny B&Bs hunting for ladies who looked like Claire and Frank’s housekeeper Mrs. Baird.
Found lots of them, too.
But any evidence of Claire and Frank themselves was nowhere to be found. And on top of that? My cheap accommodation evaporated.
Football Fellas…
3:00 pm, March 14
Inverness, Scotland
In light of reader HiHoKitty’s recent question, I’ve decided to open this post with a few words of wisdom on the subject of meeting Scottish men in the wild. In the spirit of full disclosure, I am forced to report that no, they do not wear kilts all of the time. [I would, however, be first in line to suggest that possibility, should a national referendum on the subject ever arise!] I am trying to not get caught up in cultural stereotyping of this particular sort. So far, the kilted Scotsmen I have come across have been strictly of the ‘piping for the tourists’ variety. This time of year is not a big draw for visitors from afar, so even those have been few and far between.
Rest assured, HiHoKitty, that I have, however, greeted every kilted man I have seen with a smile. Most of them have found it hard to smile back with the blowpipe in their mouths, but I remain hopeful.
I feel that the most important advice I can offer for travelers who seek to meet others is to set aside your computer and get out among the people. Situate yourself in locations where locals gather. Do a speed-dating event, if one is nearby!
In travel news, I’ve been staying in an awesome little hostel that was dead empty, because, as noted earlier, there aren’t too many tourists strolling through the Highlands in March. The ‘no tourist’ situation has been definitely to my benefit, though, since the proprietors let me stay for five pounds a day, as long as I didn’t eat. But apparently the local rugby club, Craig Dunan, has decided to put on a clinic, and players from a bunch of nearby towns are all converging on Inverness. The hostel manager said she felt bad, but she couldn’t turn down the money from such a big group.
Anyway, I’ve seen all I can in town here, so it’s time to turn my attention to finding Claire’s standing stones at Craigh na Dun. I can’t find a reference to precisely where the stones are in my copy of OUTLANDER, but at least from the name of the rugby team, they must be nearby.
Wish me luck!
- ES
Comments: 33
HiHoKitty, Sapporo, Japan:
In the story, Mister Crook drive Claire on his motor-cycle a leisurely jaunt from Mrs. Baird’s house. I am not sure how distant is a ‘jaunt’, but I think Craigh na Dun must not be far away. Luck to you, Miss Emma. Luck!
(Read 32 more comments here…)
By the time I’d found a new hostel and sorted out my room, it was ‘half five’ according to the landlady, and I was starving. She tore a map of the city off the top of the pad on the check-in desk and directed me to a pub a couple of blocks away. This new hostel was going to cost me double what the last one had, but there was nothing to be done about it. At least it was a private room. I stepped inside long enough to dump my extra clothes onto the bed and then headed down the street to find food.
The rain seeped into my collar, so I yanked up my hood and thought about my blog post as I walked. In spite of my advice to HiHoKitty and the others, I was pretty certain there would be zero opportunities for speed dating in Inverness. The thought occurred to me that my friend Jazmin would have organized a speed-dating event with the rugby team. For the first time, I was suddenly grateful to be on my own.
It was early for dinner, so I managed to find a table in a dark corner. I’d noted with a brief, hungry burst of joy that there was a small ‘Wi-Fi available here’ sticker on the door, so by the time my sausages and chips arrived I was all set up with my browser open to the Tourism Scotland page. Next to it, my copy of OUTLANDER was propped against a bottle of something called ‘brown sauce’. I turned to look at the map page inside the cover.
I searched until the last sausage was just a greasy memory on my plate, but I could not find a set of standing stones near Inverness that remotely matched the description of Craigh na Dun.
My eyes burned a little from staring at the screen so long.
“D’yeh mind if I sit here?” said a voice beside me, and I looked up to see a good-looking young guy with a tall sleeve of beer in each hand.
This was the first time I’d lifted my head from the computer screen since the server had brought my food, and I noticed with some embarrassment that the place had pretty much filled up since then. I was the only person hogging a four-seat table to myself.
“No—no, go right ahead,” I said, flustered, and yet flattered at the same time that the offer to share a table had come with a beer. “I’ll just move my stuff over.”
“Nae need, nae need,” the guy said. “I’m meetin’ a mate here. We can both squeeze in and ye’ll niver notice us.”
Ah. So much for the free beer, then. Still, I smiled at him and wedged myself further into the corner of the bench seat. I slipped the book into my pack and slid it down onto the floor between my feet.
“Verra kind of yeh, Miss. Are ye a student over from America, then?” he
asked, sitting on the bench beside me and placing the spare beer on the table across from us.
I closed the window to my blog page and shook my head. “Just a blogger,” I said, and then because he appeared to be waiting for more, I added, “here doing some research.”
He leaned back in his seat, nodding sagely. “Ach, yeah. I’m a big fan o’ blogs. I read ’em all—news, sport, you name it. Yeh must give me the location of yours so I can read all about it.”
At least he wasn’t laughing at me. And he was pretty cute. I decided to risk a question. “Do you know anything about the history of the area? I’m looking for a set of standing stones that should be not too far away.”
“Standing stones?” His face creased in thought. “Well—there’s the stones at Balnuaran of Clava, up past Culloden. They circle an ancient gravesite.”
I shook my head. “No, the ones I’m looking for should be on the side of a hill, in an area that was once wooded—I’m not sure if there are still trees there now.”
“A hill, yeh say …” He thought for a moment before taking a long swallow of beer. “Yeh know, my mate may be able to help yeh. He’s an expert in everything. Won’t be but a minute more.”
“Okay,” I said, and closed the screen of my laptop. My hopes of getting any work done were fading with each sip of beer he took. I finished my own cranberry juice and wondered if he could be my Jamie. A bit on the short side, but he seemed nice enough.
Clearly reading my thoughts, he stuck his hand out, his broad smile only slightly marred by a missing tooth in front.
“Name’s Craig,” he said. “And you are …?”
“Emma,” I said.
“Nice to meet yeh, Emma the American,” he said. “And now, since I have the bladder of a wee girl, I’ll be off to th’ bogs. Keep an eye on me mate’s pint, wouldja? Allus late, that lad.”
