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His wife turns, eager thin face and beady blue eyes. ‘All the way from Rotterdam!’ she says.
‘Cool, I’m Gethin.’
‘That is good Scottish name, Geth-in?’ Dirk tries.
‘It’s Welsh. My granddad’s Welsh?’
‘Welsh, ha? All the same Celtish, yes?’
The dogs fidget, still sniffing at me. Dirk shouts at them in Dutch, and they both sit.
‘They are good travelling dogs,’ Dirk keeps leaning over his shoulder to talk to me. I’m wishing he’d keep more of an eye on the road.
‘They travel all round Europe in a trailer for his motorbike,’ his wife explains.
‘Wow, really?’
‘It’s a special trailer I built,’ Dirk says. ‘They have plenty of space. The wife on the back.’ He grins then swerves into a passing space as a camper van comes towards him.
‘They have their beds, water, everything,’ his wife carries on. ‘But on the ferry Dogs Must Be In Cars.’
‘I should have come on bike and the wife drive with the dogs,’ Dirk grins. ‘Or better still, leave the wife at home.’
I’m saying nothing – I make a show of gazing out of the window as she shakes her head in mock disapproval.
Looking out of the window does the trick though, as in she talks to him in Dutch, pointing ahead, and he starts watching the road. He puts some music on, Coldplay, I think, which does nothing to pick up the pace of his driving. We’re in for a dreary ride.
Then we turn a corner, and the road widens. Dirk puts his foot down and the hills rise before us, the cloud lifting over the craggy tops. I feel a sudden high for the adventure I’m having.
Another corner and we head down the side of a long thin loch, with the bright green hillside and the line of tall pines reflecting perfectly in the water.
The Wife looks up from reading the map. ‘Nice, yes?’
‘Awesome!’ I say.
‘Ah.’ Dirk grins. ‘To be on the bike!’
I have a sudden urge to tell him about Don’s motorbike museum. As in we’re showing up with Dirk, two huskies and The Wife in tow? Delete that thought.
We’re almost in Lochgillan and my eyes are peeled for a glimpse of the museum. I remember it being a bit out of the centre, but with my phone pancake flat I can’t check. The road sweeps down to massive expanses of pale sand and the sea spreads to heavy cloud on the horizon. There’s like a scattering of whitewashed buildings lining the bay, with stone-built hotels set back from the road. As we come into the town there’s a sign for the Heritage Centre.
‘Just here will be fine,’ I say.
‘You meet your friend here?’ He leans over, narrowly missing the wall as he turns.
‘Er, pretty much…?’ Let them assume what they want, they’ve not actually asked me about anything.
‘We will be at camping. But the pub for dinner I think, not the wife’s cooking.’ He winds down his window as I get out of the car.
‘Perhaps I will poison him,’ she laughs.
I head to the leaflet stand in the Heritage Centre foyer, but there’s nothing about the motorbike museum. I spot the time: 16:35, steel myself to approach the kiosk.
‘We close at five.’ The woman doesn’t look up from counting her till takings.
‘I just like wanted some directions, if that’s OK?’ Panicking now that Don’s museum will be closed too.
She looks up, pale eyes bulging behind thick lensed glasses. Curly greying hair and a sparkly nose-ring.
