We walked past the entrance to the visitor center. “Listen, you,” she said as the warmth of the building enfolded us. “I’ll have a chat with that looker at the bike shop, eh, and tell him you’ll be along shortly with yours. Y’can allus lock it up outside if the shop’s closed by the time ye get back.”
I pulled out my wallet. “Okay, but let me give you the money for my share, at least.”
She folded the bills into her pocket. “If there’s a late charge, I’ll cover it and you can jes’ get it back to me tomorrow, aye?”
“No—no—take five extra pounds, just in case.”
That bill disappeared into her pocket with the rest. “Righ’, perfect. And if there’s no charge, I’ll get this back to you in the mornin’, then.”
We were walking toward the exit through the gift shop, among the rows of plaid shortbread biscuit packets and stuffed Nessies, when a bit of a disturbance rose up at the cash desk. A man I recognized as one of the people who had been wiping his eyes at the end of the battle re-enactment movie was complaining loudly to the cashier.
“Look,” he said. “My wallet is gone. I had it when I came in, because I paid the entrance fee. Someone’s taken it.”
Susan clutched my arm. “Didja hear that, Emma? Fella’s had his pocket picked. Is yours still safely stowed?”
I felt for my own wallet, but it was safe in my pack, and then thought about Susan jamming my cash into the pocket of her jeans.
“Have you got yours?“ I asked, as we walked toward our bikes. She patted her pocket and took a quick look inside. “Yep, it’s there. Guess we got off lucky.”
Through the front window of the visitors’ center we could see quite a commotion brewing, with several employees milling around a group of clearly very disturbed patrons.
Susan swung her leg over her bicycle. “Ye’ll have no trouble at all finding Clava,” she said. “I’ll see to the bikes and you can tell me all about it tomorrow, yeah?”
I walked my bike up beside her, my knee still stiff from the earlier ride. “Thanks for the tour today. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that unmarked grave of the bugler named Sheridan.”
“Faith and Begorrah,” she said, her accent deepening. “We need to keep the feckin’ spirit of the green alive, yeah?”
I nodded and she wheeled around and headed down the road to Inverness. “See you tomorrow!” I called to her back, as she raced away.
She raised a hand in return. I could have sworn she flashed me the Celtic peace sign, which made me laugh out loud. I leaned my bike back against the wall, and paused to make a couple of quick notes before heading off myself.
3:00 pm, March 15
Culloden Battlefield, Scotland
Notes to self for later:
This place has everything I dreamed of, and more. The fields are rough and filled with memorials to the dead. My tour guide (Susan!) took me to a place where soldiers of my own family ancestry made their sacrifice in the name of the Bonny Prince.
It is a day I will never forget.
And speaking of forgetting, a note to HiHoKitty. (No, I’m not obsessing...)
HiHoKitty, to answer your question, no, Hamish (the young man I met) was not wearing a kilt. He had on a very nice cable-knit sweater, though, over his equally nice arms. I’ve thought about him every day for the two-and-a-half long weeks since I lost him.
Maybe I shouldn’t include that last line...too desperate-sounding.
I threw my notebook into my pack, shouldered it and pedaled off in the direction Susan had pointed.
The circle.
It was after four by the time I pedaled up to the sign Susan had told me to look for on the road. The sky was low and gray—not quite rain, but a mist filled the air. I couldn’t tell if it came down from the clouds or up from the ground itself, which as soon as I stepped off the road was dense and damp underfoot.
There was one of those mini-tour buses parked by the sign and I could see a small collection of people in heavy tweed coats and rubber boots snaking their way down though a thin line of trees. I leaned my bike against the sign and peered up at the sky. It didn’t look like it was about to full-out rain, but the mist showed no sign of slowing, either. As the bike guy had pointed out, there was a light on the handlebars of my hired bicycle, but I didn’t relish the idea of a ride back to Inverness along these bumpy roads alone in the darkness either. I was turning out to be a less intrepid traveler than Susan gave me credit for.
Deciding to make it a short visit, I leaned over the Historic Scotland sign to read the description of the site. Turned out the place was old—much older than the fields of Culloden. And though there were standing stones, something was not quite … right.