The female officerhas been quite persistent in asking me to seek medical attention, but I keeprefusing. With nothing broken there’s really no point. I just ask her to pointme in the nearest direction of somewhere I can buy some painkillers from. Shedrives me to the local inn which dates back to the 17th century andthe bartender proudly declares that it is well known as being a hauntedlocation. This is the last thing I really wanted to hear after the day I’ve hadbut I smile at him whilst he regales us with some stories and folklore. Sheorders some coffee and cake for me then tells me she’ll be back in a minute.
True to her word she appears back a fewminutes later with a varied assortment of painkillers. We get chatting aboutwhat happens next, and she says first things first, they will arrange to towthe car to the nearest garage and that I should notify my insurance company.Then she asks if I know of someone to call to come and collect me. I tell herof course and to just leave me to it. She looks hesitant, clearly a caringsoul, not wanting to abandon me in this vulnerable state. However, again I amvery insistent and grateful for her help, but I am even more grateful when I’mleft on my own to collect my thoughts.
Thankfully, the painkillers are startingto work their magic and the coffee and cake have done wonders in uplifting mymood. OK, who do I phone? Normally there would be no question – it’d be Janey.But is that wise? She would be there in a heartbeat and I’d be ushered home torest and recuperate. I realise it’s more a question of whether I want tocontinue with this trip or abandon it altogether. What my heart and my head aretelling me are two different things.
Without further thought, I select mychosen contact and hit ‘call.’ He answers after just two rings.
“Thomas, how are you?”
“I’ve been better!”
“What’s happened, are you OK?”
“I’m en route to Skye but I’ve beeninvolved in a car accident. I’m fine but I’m stuck here. Both the car and I arepretty battered and bruised. So, I’m thinking to forget all this and makearrangements to go home.”
Is that strictly true? I’d phoned George.Now why phone him if I wanted to go home? Surely, I would just have phonedJaney and asked her to take me home. Was this inadvertently a plea for helpbecause I wanted to continue the journey? George replies, “Tell me exactlywhere you are. I’m coming to get you.”
I decided not to phone Janey at all. She’donly worry needlessly and insist on me coming home so instead I waited it outat the Inn. Four long painful hours pass, then my chaperone arrives. Hisopening line – “Well, Thomas, you are a sight for sore eyes, let’s get you intothe car.” I swallow another few painkillers down, the thought of the longjourney ahead cramped up in a car with my injuries not filling me with muchglee. He’s managed to park just outside so with his help and the assistance ofthe bartender they flank either side of me and, somehow, we make it to the carthen they bundle me into the passenger seat.
It occurs to me that I hadn’t even plannedto let George know I was making the journey to Skye and yet here I was sat byhis side with him having come to my rescue. I don’t know whether to be gratefulfor his kindness in making this journey or angry at him for not talking senseinto me and telling me to go home.
This was going to be a long awkward drive.What would we talk about and would I have the ability to even hold aconversation? All my energy was currently focused on breathing through thespasms of pain exploding in my head. He seemed to sense this, and we startedthe journey off in a mutually agreeable silence.
The effect of the painkillers sets in andI no longer have to concern myself about anything as I fall into a deep sleep.But it doesn’t last long. When I eventually start to waken, I’m doing battlewith my head and body. My mind is screaming for more sleep, but my body won’tallow it. The pain in my lower back tracks its way up my spine and into myskull, meeting the tender painful areas already present there. I have no optionbut to open my eyes and sit up.
I look out of the window and instantlyrecognise where we are – Bridge of Orchy. People often refer to Stirling asbeing the gateway to the Highlands but, for me, the Bridge of Orchy representsthe gateway. It is from this point onwards that the spectacular landscapeunfolds. The transition from low-lying hills and populated areas makes way tovast wide-open spaces; snow-capped peaks all around and the odd croft and farmdotted here and there. The feeling is one of unbounded possibility. Having beenaway so long from this landscape I am surprised to note there’s a wistfulfeeling developing. I realise that I had to leave because of everything thathappened but the wild untamed beauty of the area still holds a place in myheart.
“Thomas.” Where did that voice come from?It wasn’t George, that’s for sure. It was a female voice, a tender voice. Isense its source, it’s coming from behind me, but I struggle to turn my neckaround with the pain only allowing a very restricted movement. I am forced totry to mentally place the voice and realise it’s familiar. It has the same liltas mine and it hits me with full force.
“Juliet?” I venture.
“Yes Thomas, I’m here!”
“Oh Juliet, it’s been so long! How areyou?”
“I’m great, Thomas, but never mind aboutme! How are you? You don’t look so good. I see you’ve been in an accident.”
“I’m fine, honestly, just a few bumps andbruises, nothing which won’t heal up. How did you know about my accident andthe fact I was headed for Skye?” I don’t know why I’m
