Finding Fraser(58)

I turned and walked back to Valerie. “This is such a beautiful place,” I said quietly. “Just looking around here, it takes my breath away. I can understand how your family has stayed here for so many generations. You must never want to leave.”

She whistled sharply for Wullie and then smiled at me as he came bounding up. “For all that’s true, pet, I am fond of a wee jaunt to Pamplona in February. The winters here can be a mite dreich.”





Future Feelings…

9:00 pm, March 20

Drumnadrochit, Scotland



Just back from an amazing visit to another set of standing stones. This time, my guide was someone who knows things. Her heart and her blood are in this soil. And she taught me the Scots word for the constant rain and mist, too.

We did not see a ghost, or find a Highlander to sweep me off my feet. But she has reminded me that my dreams are always within my grasp.

First, though? I need to find a job.



- ES



Comments: 13

Gerald Abernathy, Ft. William, Scotland:

Nothing?

Nothing?

Ah, well … at least you didn’t get sick. Email me, y’all!



Jack Findlay, Edinburgh, Scotland:

Don’t have an email address for you, Emma, so I thought I’d just drop you a quick note here on your blog to let you know all is well. Ankle is broken, but plastered and I’m back down to Edinburgh for re-coup and a chat with my editor. Thanks again for your help, and Godspeed.

Jack

(Read 11 more comments here…)





I leaned back in my seat and sipped the last of my almost-cold tea. So Jack’s ankle was broken. I felt a spasm of guilt as I thought about him taking that long walk all the way from the castle to the road. But at least he was okay. Still writing. When my life returned to some semblance of normal, I would have to stop and buy one of his books. Gerald certainly thought he was a great writer. And speaking of Gerald, wherever I ended up next, I needed to email him. He clearly wanted all the details from the trip to the circle.

Not that I had a lot to share.

By the time I’d read the last of the comments as they rolled in, the woman at the front of the cafe had cleaned off all the tables and was looking at me pointedly. I gathered up the remains of my biscuit and backpack and stepped outside. The bus stop was right next to the coffee shop. A solid, dreary rain had begun to fall and I’d been hoping that the cafe would stay open for shelter until the bus arrived, but no joy on that front.

I pulled up my hood, waited for the lights of the next bus and thought about Valerie. About the moment when she’d held my hand. The circle of stones hadn’t been Craigh na Dun, I’d known that all along. And even as star-struck as this voyage had been from the start, I had no real expectation of a Highland warrior suddenly manifesting for my approval. I couldn’t quite remember just what I had been thinking at the onset of this journey, but the route I had taken had provided dreamy young Scottish men in distinctly short supply.

I had to face facts. In spite of the rain, and the cold and my inability to find a reasonable facsimile of Craigh na Dun, the country was beginning to take a hold on me. The Scottish grip was squeezing tightly on my heart. But finding my Fraser had not happened. I needed to earn enough to buy the plane ticket as promised, and go home.

A pair of lights swung round the corner and the bus pulled up at last.





Filleting Fish…

8:00 pm, April 3

Glasgow, Scotland



Been here for almost two weeks now, having caught the bus down from Drumnadrochit. Have to admit to having a bit of a struggle finding a job. As pretty much expected, it seems that a visitor’s visa generally doesn’t allow a person to work while they are visiting. At least not legally. So for your edification here are a few thoughts on things you should not do while looking for work while away from your homeland:

Don’t be a linguistic loser: Affecting a Scottish accent in order to convince potential employers of your local status is not recommended. They can tell. They really can.

Pathetic principle: Do not turn down a position as a street-hawker with a haughty “I can do better”, only to return and apply again when it turns out you can’t. Because they remember. They really do.

Fatal flaw: And above all, do not overstate your skill set, particularly as a salesperson of seafood comestibles, as——and trust me on this one——it leads only to a back room, an apron that smells of fish guts, and a plethora of scaling-knife wounds.

From these tips you may be able to tell I found something last week at last. I was going to call myself a piscine executive, but the truth is I have been cutting up fish for a man who owns a shop here in Glasgow. However, twelve-hour days of chopping and gutting don’t leave much time for blogging. Or Fraser-finding. Hoping things will loosen up a bit, soon.