Finding Fraser(61)

I couldn’t recall if Claire had ever made the journey to Nairn, and I wanted to check it out. I had flipped pages, scanned and read some more, but the text of OUTLANDER proved no help. Claire had obviously not made Nairn a stop in her travels, at least in the first book. The map inside the cover was even less help, since the town name was nowhere to be found, and at that moment, I wasn’t quite sure exactly where I had ended up. Had I taken a bus to nowhere?

Luckily, the man at the chippy had handed me a creased and dog-eared copy of a leaflet cheerily titled ‘Welcome to Nairnshire’. The back half of the leaflet was missing, but it at least gave me a place to start. Then he pointed me to the Tourist Center, which shared space with the town library and actually offered use of a free Internet terminal for visitors.

I walked out into the street, feeling hopeful for the first time in what felt like weeks. This was, after all, the land of the hardy Highland Warrior. The Nairn Games. Another chance to complete my journey. Forget the ghosts that Gerald had me chasing—I needed to find my very own Fraser. Mind you, I needed to find a laundromat first. If I did come across my Jamie, he’d probably like me better in clothes that had been recently washed.

But still. I felt so welcome already.

Inside the library, I learned that the town itself had a population somewhere north of 8,000 people, and that the locals considered their wee metropolis to be the center of golfing excellence, with two large courses nearby and more than forty others within a sixty mile radius. I wondered briefly about a golf-playing Jamie, and then rejected the thought.

I needed a guy who had time for noble pursuits. Like the pursuit of Emma, for example.

The brochure went on to note that other than being a seaside village with many popular tourist amenities, Nairn also hosted one of the largest competitive games events in the Highlands.

Of course. I’d known that from the kilted man on the side of the bus. Seeing as there were fewer clan wars in the twenty-first century, and cattle poaching had become almost unheard of, the Highland Games seemed as good a place as any to carry on the quest for my personal version of Jamie.

Unfortunately, a quick search of Nairn - Highland Games brought me a more complete story. While it turned out the dog-eared little brochure from the chippy man was correct, and there were Highland Games in Nairn every year, they were held in late summer. Which made perfect sense. It can’t be easy to toss a caber while slogging through a muddy field.

I logged off the computer with a sigh.

At least some of my commenters had returned. But aside from the cheery note from Jack and the diatribe from my sister, all the comments came from overseas readers. All asked, in a range of dialects and with varying degrees of subtlety, when the hell I was going to find my Highlander and fall in love, already.

Since my last experiences with men had been a naked fishmonger and an irate café owner, I obviously needed more practice.

So there I sat, months away from the Games that drew the muscle-y Highland boys, one of whom might be my own personal Fraser. I had no idea what to do next. From the way my comments were going, it was clear the outside world was losing patience in my quest. And the dwindling contents of my wallet were dragging me down worse than the light blog traffic.

I decided to take a look around the place, anyway. I was, after all, deeper in the Highlands than ever before. I could at least allow myself a day to play the tourist before addressing the twin evils of facing up to my financial situation and heading back south to find work. And who knows? Maybe there would be a singles bar in Nairn.

Beside the computer terminal was a tourist information bulletin board, which was speckled with bent pushpins and old messages. After reading every torn page, it soon became clear there was no hostel in the town, or at least not one open in the off-season. Since the bulletin board and the computer desk were the full extent of the tourist information section, I wandered up to the library front desk and picked up a pamphlet detailing local accommodations.

Even at off-season rates, there wasn’t a bed and breakfast anywhere that could match hostel rates.

Finally the lady behind the desk leaned forward on one elbow and looked up at me over her glasses. “Try Missus McGuinty, down Lochloy Road,” she said, with a serious nod. “I’ve heard she’ll give travelers a special rate in springtime, especially those who are willing to look after themselves.”

“My budget is just ten pounds a night,” I repeated.

“You try her, pet. She’s got a lovely spot out there, facing the firth. Ye won’t be disappointed, I promise.”

It felt like destiny.





On the library lady’s advice, I tried to banish my bad memories of earlier experiences and rented a bicycle from a garage across the street. After a twenty-minute ride into the teeth of an extremely brisk wind, I found myself at a deeply rutted driveway marked with the McGuinty’s B&B sign.