The Thin Places
Inverness, present day
It was a dark and stormy night. Darker and stormier than a night in mid-August had any right to be, even in Scotland. And it didn’t look much better when I opened my bedroom curtains around six-thirty the next morning. Over at Inverness Castle, Flora MacDonald was up to her bronze knees in mist, her wee dog was nowhere to be seen, and the sky looked like someone had thrown a tin of black paint into a puddle and stirred it with a big stick.
That was the thing about living in the Highlands, though; even in the height of summer, you could wake up to what looked like a meteorological apocalypse happening outside your window. But by the time you were having your cereal and toast, the muddy grey skies had disappeared, and you were looking up at a blue so sharp and bright it hurt your eyes.
Okay, those rainclouds had been blown away by a wind that felt like it was made up of a thousand tiny needles. But no one came to Scotland for the weather. And most people who signed up for Highland Hearts Tours read the information pack I sent out, so they knew to come prepared for anything our climate could throw at them. In principle, anyway.
I showered, dried my hair. Chomped my way through a breakfast bar, and put the coffee on while I checked my phone for messages. Nothing from my pal at the Archive Centre about the family research project we were collaborating on, but Fraser, my ex and business partner, had texted while I was in the shower, nagging me about getting to my morning pick-up in good time. Got to keep the punters happy, Rae. We need those TripAdvisor reviews.
Well, no problem there. I’d taken our current tour group to Skye the previous day, and I was pretty sure some of them were already typing their comments as we drove back to Inverness. I had a feeling they wouldn’t include many five-star ratings, though, not that it was my fault. Not this time.
Haunted Highlands wasn’t a tour I ever wanted us to run – all that ‘ghoulies and ghosties’ stuff brought me out in hives – but I couldn’t deny it was popular. The trouble was, it came loaded with expectations. The people who booked it wanted to see things. Experience things; take in the normal tourist sights, sure, but with added Highland spookiness to lightly chill the blood.
When Fraser was taking them out, that was fine. My ex had the attention span of an intellectually-challenged haggis when it came to historical accuracy, but he had the whole Outlander look going on, all bearded, kilted broodiness, and he worked it like a pro. To be fair, he actually enjoyed interacting with our groups. I was happier lurking on the sidelines in scruffy jeans and hoodie, exhibiting people skills best suited to a medieval religious order. A silent one.
Normally, things worked out perfectly. We’d agreed the demarcation lines when we decided to keep working together after our more-or-less amicable split; Fraser did the groups, I dealt with all the backroom stuff. I wrote the copy for our brochures and the website and put the tours together, which fitted in well with my family history work. If I had to do the coach trips, I did the four-hour ones; being cooped up in a minibus with eight strangers for a whole day did not put me in my happy place.
But Fraser’s broken ankle – a drunken Strip the Willow at his cousin’s wedding six weeks earlier – meant I was in the driving seat until the end of the month. Literally. And that meant it was down to me to provide the “lifetime’s memories of a magical experience” our website rashly promised. After my trip to Skye with this week’s group, the jury was out on that one.
I did tell them the island’s Gaelic name is Eilean a’ Cheò, the misty isle, and I warned them there was a good reason for that. The weather didn’t bother Brad the Texan, though; he’d brought along a book he’d written, Scottish Spooks and Spectres, and was seizing the chance to do a little off-the-cuff marketing.
His relentless sales pitch was going to grate after a while, I could tell, but the group was still at the “great to meet you, isn’t this awesome” stage, so I shut up and let him have his moment. I’d taken a quick look at the complimentary copy he’d given me, and frankly he needed every promo opportunity he could get.
We’d set off from Inverness in decent weather, but when we stopped for a comfort break in Broadford, the clouds were leaden. By the time we reached Duntulm the ruins were wreathed in mist and almost invisible. I cut our visit short and took them on to Dunvegan, where the castle’s gothic vibes went down a storm. But as soon as we set foot outside after the tour, the rain came lashing down. And it followed us all the way back to Inverness.
Still, new day, new start. I was looking forward to that morning’s outing; I’d planned a short, atmospheric jaunt round the Black Isle, with a posh picnic lunch and a wee stop in Beauly for some retail therapy. Something for everyone, I thought.
I got to the hotel in good time, called at Reception to let them know I’d arrived, and checked no-one had pulled out overnight. It didn’t happen often; our tours weren’t cheap, and the people who booked them didn’t usually let anything distract them from what they’d come to see. But occasionally, the hotel’s impressive collection of whiskies proved too hard to resist. And after our Skye soaking, I couldn’t blame anyone for fancying a dram or two to take the chill off. It looked like everyone was still up for today’s outing, though, so I collected their picnic lunches and went back to the minibus to wait for them.
Carrie and Helena Montgomery-Ward, the chatty Black couple from San Diego were first out, followed by the Peterson family. Then Henry MacLean and Brad Hofstattler. Henry, a schoolteacher from New England, was clutching a copy of Brad’s book, and I guessed he’d been subjected to a sales pitch from the ebullient Texan over breakfast.
Knowing Brad, it had been delivered at full volume, which probably accounted for the look of suffering on Henry’s gentle features. If ever a man was in need of a mute button, that man was Brad.