Luck Be a Lady, Part I

Not that I’m particularly misfortunate, but when it comes to the day-to-day I would not describe myself as someone predisposed to excess luck. There was one time I found five dollars in the snow and bought bacon, but usually I am centered levelly in the wheel of fortune. So, when I arrived in Inverness and my single room had been upgraded to a triple, I was a bit more excited than I really had cause to be. It was a turning, it seemed to me, after the Edinburghian doldrums. Walking along the banks of the River Ness in the sunset with a nip in the air and the sound of gulls on the wind, I was filled with delighted expectancy – the pursuant days would hold great things, I was sure, so long as I sought them out.

The following morning, I decided to explore the city. And by “explore,” of course, I mean that I wanted to find a good bookstore and preeminently find a decent roastery and replace my depleted coffee supply. Walking into Leaky’s Book Store felt like the scene when the Beast gives Belle his library. Books on books on books. Mountains of books. Shelved and stacked in lovely disarray floor to ceiling in the old Gaelic church, a wood fire crackling merrily in the center as I made my way to the wrought iron spiral staircase. I don’t know how long I spent in there, but I am just now remembering that I forgot to go back to pick up the first edition Agatha Christie. Finally, my caffeine headache drove me a few blocks down the street. I sat for a while, chatting with the barista. The last American they’d had in there, she told me, was a writer – science fiction, she thought – and set up in the Highlands to make it the backdrop of his book. From this, I infer that he was actually a fantasy writer, but considering how the two genres are lumped together, I wasn’t surprised. She was also happy to give me all sorts of advice on where to go and what to see.

Despite of all the new information, I knew what was necessarily my next stop. It’s still unclear to me as to whether the locals actually believe in the Loch Ness Monster or if they just enjoy having a go at tourists. In either case, Nessie is spoken about with an extreme level of familiarity, like a household pet that everyone knows. Sitting on a jut of stone with my feet dangling in the frosty waves of Loch Ness, I held the alar of Nessie’s existence firmly in my mind and searched in earnest for a glimpse of the legendary leviathan. Although I met with no success, watching the mist roll in over the expansive waters was itself a sight rare enough to content me.

I continued driving my circuit, occasionally pulling over to enjoy the view. That’s when I spotted it. A hiking trail just off the road with views over the loch. After changing into my hiking clothes which I fortunately had had the foresight to stow in my daypack, I took off into the woods. How quickly day turns to dusk under the boughs of thick pines. A green gloom spread out before me, pierced by occasional shafts of yellow sunlight. I followed the path upwards along the sound of the waterfall, and I was overcome (and not for the last time) by the awareness that although Jackson chose to film in New Zealand, Middle Earth was modelled on the British Isles, and I felt that I was there. Previously, I wrote of my dislike for running. I shall now clarify. I dislike running on flat in the open. In the forest, however, with roots and rocks below and trees twisting above, I become sure and fleet of foot. And so it was that I bound through the forest trails overlooking Loch Ness singing “Colors of the Wind.” If you’re wondering how I managed to sing while running since I barely manage a wheeze, you have good reason. The solution to this is the same as to the problem of my uniquely displeasing singing voice. I sing in my head. I never run out of breath, and I sound like Susan Egan. Truly, I’m good enough to bring you to tears, if you could hear it.

After my hike/sing/run, I decided to take the high road home. I followed the mountain road on the eastern side of the loch. The winding mountain road brought with it beautiful vistas and more impromptu jaunts. When the sun was hanging low, I found myself unexpectedly at a mountain lake, and I pulled over to take it all in. It was one of those serene existential moments in which everything seems to make sense, even if you can’t understand it. Standing there in that timeless moment, my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a car slowing. Nothing strikes fear in my heart like a stopping car, my mind immediately jumps to the Zodiac killer and all sorts of sordid stories. So I turned and faced an instant of bewilderment. Surrealism shifted as serenity turned to “oh shit.” My car was gone. Its parking spot was empty. Eyes wide and mouth agape, I discovered why the approaching car was slowing. There was my car, 50 meters away in the middle of the road, rolling slowly away. I couldn’t ask for a better example of why I tend to be a luddite. Automatic electronic parking brake they tell you, excited with their new technology. Guaranteed to make everything simpler, everything better! That is, of course, until your car blows away in the wind. I again felt unnaturally lucky. Lucky because, to paraphrase one Michael Scott, if you trust technology it’ll drive your car into a lake, and I somehow escaped that eventuality.

The next two days were spent exploring more of the country and more of the city and eating a liter of raspberry ripple vanilla ice cream. Scotland knows how to do dairy. Kerry Gold pales in comparison to the butter here. I licked it right off the knife and didn’t even care. It tastes like buttercream icing. Drinking the milk was an entirely new experience, unlike anything I’ve ever tasted Stateside. Happy cows don’t come from California, they come from Scotland.

Warmed by the thick cream coating my arteries, I decided to venture yet further north, despite the snow we had that morning. Like most good things, I stumbled upon the empty beach of Dornoch quite by accident. Although the sun shone down on the frozen coast, when I took off northward I was bundled against the cold: coat, hat, and hiking boots. The lack of sea gulls should have seemed conspicuous to me, but ever since I saw that kid in a stroller get attacked and lose his toast to the bird a few days earlier, I found them rather sinister and was happy for their absence. In the six miles that followed, I lost count the number of times my coat, hat, and gloves came on and off. I think we use the term “intermittent” rather loosely. Intermittent means three different snow showers, four rainstorms, wind, sun, and calm in a two-hour period. What is one to do finding herself alone on the coast of the North Sea in wintry weather as the clouds roll in? There is only one logical conclusion, I surmised, and that is to run pell mell into the waves. Legs numb and dripping wet, I drove home with a smile on my face and a rainbow dancing in the snow behind me. 

 The Brevity Report

• Chilled with Nessie
• Utterly disregarded my lactose-intolerance