‘If I’d had my phone, we’d be there by now,’ he says, rummaging around in the glove compartment for his beloved mobile, which he can’t find. My husband thinks gadgets and gizmos are the answer to all of life’s problems.
‘I asked if you had everything you needed before we left the house,’ I say.
‘I did have everything. My phone was in the glovebox.’
‘Then it would still be there. It’s not my job to pack your things for you. I’m not your mother.’
I immediately regret saying it, but words don’t come with gift receipts and you can’t take them back. Adam’s mother is at the top of the long list of things he doesn’t like to talk about. I try to be patient while he continues searching for his phone, despite knowing he’ll never find it. He’s right. He did put it in the glovebox. But I took it out before we left home this morning and hid it in the house. I plan to teach my husband an important lesson this weekend and he doesn’t need his phone for that.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re back on the road and seem to be making progress. Adam squints in the darkness as he studies the directions I printed off – unless it’s a book or a manuscript, anything written on paper instead of a screen seems to baffle him.
‘You need to take the first right at the next roundabout,’ he says, sounding more confident than I would have expected.
We are soon reliant on the moon to light our way and hint at the rise and fall of the snowy landscape ahead. There are no streetlights, and the headlights on the Morris Minor barely light the road in front of us. I notice that we are low on petrol again, but haven’t seen anywhere to fill up for almost an hour. The snow is relentless now, and there has been nothing but the dark outlines of mountains and lochs for miles.
When we finally see a snow-covered old sign for Blackwater, the relief in the car is palpable. Adam reads the last set of directions with something bordering on enthusiasm.
‘Cross the bridge, turn right when you pass a bench overlooking the loch. The road will bend to the right, leading into the valley. If you pass the pub, you’ve gone too far and missed the turning for the property.’
‘A pub dinner might be nice later,’ I suggest.
Neither of us says anything when the Blackwater Inn comes into view in the distance. I turn off before we reach the pub, but we still get close enough to see that its windows are boarded up. The ghostly building looks as though it has been derelict for a long time.
The winding road down into the valley is both spectacular and terrifying. It looks like it has been chiselled out of the mountain by hand. The track is barely wide enough for our little car, and there’s a steep drop on one side with not a single crash barrier.
‘I think I can see something,’ Adam says, leaning closer to the windscreen and peering into the darkness. All I can see is a black sky and a blanket of white covering everything beneath it.
‘Where?’
‘There. Just beyond those trees.’
I slow down a little as he points at nothing. But then I notice what looks like a large white building all on its own in the distance.
‘It’s just a church,’ he says, sounding defeated.
‘That’s it!’ I say, reading an old wooden sign up ahead. ‘Blackwater Chapel is what we’re looking for. We must be here!’
‘We’ve driven all this way to stay in… an old church?’
‘A converted chapel, yes, and I did all the driving.’
I slow right down, and follow the snow-covered dirt track that leads away from the single-lane road and into the floor of the valley. We pass a tiny thatched cottage on the right – the only other building I can see for miles – then we cross a small bridge and are immediately confronted by a flock of sheep. They are huddled together, eerily illuminated by our headlights, and blocking our path. I gently rev the engine, and try tapping the car horn, but they don’t move. With their eyes glowing in the darkness they look a little supernatural. Then I hear the sound of growling in the back of the car.
Bob – our giant black Labrador – has been quiet for most of the journey. At his age he mostly likes to sleep and eat, but he is afraid of sheep. And feathers. I’m scared of silly things too, but I am right to be. Bob’s growling does nothing to scare the herd. Adam opens the car door without warning, and a flurry of snow immediately blows inside, blasting us from all directions. I watch as he climbs out, shields his face, then shoos the sheep, before opening a gate that had been hidden from view behind them. I don’t know how Adam saw it in the dark.