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Dirk and Else fuss like over-protective parents with the dogs once we’ve parked at the foot of the glen. I feel a spare part as I lean over the bridge and watch the river seeping into stewy marsh as it meets the shoreline.
Eventually we are dog-leashed and setting off up the glen where the river runs fresher through banks thick with yellow flowered bushes. I’m about to identify this as gorse, when I get a flash of inspiration.
‘Broom!’ I point at the plants. ‘That’s why it’s Broomdale!’
Dirk beams his approval, and I allow the satisfaction for a few seconds. Else meanwhile has mastered the art of walking and reading out loud, and I mean loud.
‘Black Mordoch McCalstry of the Cave received this soubriquet because, being a wild youth, he preferred to reside within the Torridons, hoping to get a chance of slaying his enemy Leon MacGallieatirs.’ Else reads in a monotone Dutch accent, pausing now and again to nod at me.
I’m literally losing the plot before it starts as she ploughs endlessly through this story of Murdo hiding here and sailing a galley there, gathering a band of fighters and finding his old nurse and a load more ins and outs before eventually slaughtering his enemies somewhere up the coast. I smile and nod like an idiot, while Dirk snorts and raises his eyebrows, which of course encourages Else to read more. Meanwhile the dogs pretty much throttle themselves on their choker chains in reaction to the snail pace walking.
The path skirts the wooded hillside which is indeed lush with vegetation: primitive looking fern-like specimens, low lying bushes with white star flowers, a patch of little purple flowers Dirk decides are orchids. Banks of trees rise up the hillside, trailing lichen and swinging creepers. Else continues her endless tales of whales and drownings in lochs, of fishing smacks loaded with weapons and whisky, kidnapping, murder, and trickery of every sort. Her dull monotone literally destroys any interest the stories may have had for me, not helped by the thickening clouds of midges further into the glen.
Eventually our path crosses a driveway that leads through some stepped grassy banks to Broomdale house. There’s a PRIVATE – NO ENTRY notice on the gate but you can see the manor house with its line of chimneys and random gables.
Else pauses and we stare at the house and the blank of its mullioned windows. It couldn’t feel less welcoming.
Then she starts up again, ‘Angus McCalstry, renowned archer, was said to have enticed his enemy’s daughter with his extraordinary physique, bringing her to his grand new Broomdale house…?’
‘Maybe we can claim a whisky from your clannish folk?’ Dirk says to Else while winking at me. ‘They owe us this small, how do you say, kindred spirit?’
I manage a hollow laugh at Dirk’s joke before moving to lean against the gatepost. Am I in some nightmare episode of Who Do You Think You Are, where my claims to ancestry are side-lined by the pathetic routine of these lowland imposters? Meanwhile my own father won’t acknowledge me as kin.
‘Ah, Geth-in. How do you think to call on the wife’s family?’ Dirk moves to give me a hefty nudge.
‘If they get their Scottish independence, perhaps they can support me for dual citizenship?’ Else steps forward waving her book in my face.
Something snaps in me and I jump away from them, shake my fist at the NO ENTRY sign.
‘Looks to me like they’ve closed their ranks.’ My voice rises with the emotion I can’t control any longer.
‘Oh, we only make a joke,’ Dirk reaches to touch my arm.
Else comes around the other side, face creased with concern, trailing the dogs who position themselves in front of me. They are creeping me out big style. How desperate was I choosing even temporary adoption by these loonies?
‘Whoa,’ I hold my arms out. ‘I just need to go now, guys, OK?’ I glare at them both and they back off as I turn to the path towards Lochgillan.
I’ve worked up major thirst by the time I get to the hotel bar, and I’m slapping a tenner down for a pint of Tennent’s before I even notice who’s serving me. I down a few gulps and finally look up to her staring through bottle-thick glasses. I’ve seen her before; I remember the nose-ring.
‘Ah, you were at the Heritage Centre? I swear this place has about two people in total.’
‘My husband manages the hotel, so I help in the bar, as well as at the Centre,’ she explains. ‘You were after finding the motorcycle museum, as I remember?’
‘Oh, yes.’ I look down into my drink, remembering Don’s warning to keep quiet about him. ‘It was like closed, as in nobody there.’
‘Aye, that’ll be nothing unusual these days.’ She pulls a little knowing smile. ‘Did you say you knew the fella that runs it?’
‘Not exactly. Just, like, a friend of my mum’s used to know him and kind of suggested I look him up?’ I shrug.
‘Hey, did you hear that, Robbie?’ She moves down the bar to a guy reading a newspaper.
He looks up, all blue startled eyes in a ginger-bearded face. ‘Sorry Laura, I was that deep in this article.’
‘This young man’s mother was a pal of Don McCalstry,’ Laura nods as she emphasises the name.
‘Oh aye?’ Robbie gives me the onceover.
‘Oh, no, not my mum, her friend,’ I say, feeling awkward.
