But even though we are surrounded by magnificence, it doesn’t negate the predicament parked right in front of us.
A MINI Cooper.
Our form of transportation.
An itty-bitty green MINI Cooper.
Such a petite vehicle normally wouldn’t be an issue—they’re adorable—but when you have to cart six months’ worth of luggage two hundred miles into the mountains, it doesn’t scream “practical.”
But don’t worry. The rental company provided twine to secure our bags on top of the roof.
Oh, and in case you weren’t aware, the Scots also drive on the other side of the road . . . and the other side of the car.
“Please, Bonnie, I can barely hold it together.”
My beautiful best friend who thought of this brilliant idea—traveling across the world to sell coffee to strangers—forgot one minor detail: she suffers from horrible motion sickness. She spent our entire flight with her head in a bag while I rubbed her back and prayed to Jesus she wouldn’t throw up on my leg.
“Can’t we call an Uber or something?” I ask.
“No, this is the car Finella and Stuart arranged for us. Plus, I don’t think Ubers drive out to Corsekelly. The town is really small.”
“Dakota, that is a clown car.” I point to it. “And you expect me to drive it through twisty, windy roads with two hundred pounds of luggage while navigating the opposite side of the road?”
“You’re never one to back away from a challenge.” She tries to smile, but it’s pained. “They’re expecting us in a few hours.”
I sigh and move around the car. “The hospitable thing to do would have been to pick us up.” I fold down the back seats and shove a suitcase in the rear. I lift up another suitcase and shove that one in as well. When I realize that’s all that’s going to fit, a light sweat breaks out over the back of my neck. Oh shit. I turn to Dakota. “Uh, so now we have to use the rope?”
She glances down at the thick woven cable in her hand. “I’m thinking . . . maybe?”
“Fine, I don’t care. Let’s just get them loaded up.”
Together, we lift the first suitcase up top and then the second. How on earth are we going to—？
“Awright, lasses, dae yi’ll need some hulp?” a deep voice says from behind me.
Ehhh . . . what?
I spin around to find a tall man with bright-red hair on top of his head and framing his face from ear to chin. He’s wearing a charming smile and a tempting kilt. What I wouldn’t give for a touch of Marilyn Monroe wind right about now.
“Umm . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t quite understand you.”
“Och, y’er American. Dinna fash yirsel, y’er in guid hauns.”
Blinks
Mentally cleans out ears
Blinks again
“You told me they speak English here,” I hiss at Dakota.
“They do.” She looks as stiff as I do.
Snagging the rope from my hand, the rental car guy moves around the car like a ninja, strapping down the suitcases and securing them better than I ever could have. If I did it, Dakota would have to spend her first week in Scotland nude.
Dusting off his hands, he surveys his work and then turns to us. “That shuid dae it. Whaur ye aff tae?”
Oh God, I can’t understand a damn thing he’s saying. I want to say he’s speaking English. I can recognize some words. They’re in there, and he’s acting like we should know what he’s saying, but it’s not translating.
Sweat creeps up my neck.
The corners of my lips flatten out, and I wince. “I’m sorry. Little jet-lagged. Uh, can you repeat that?”
He chuckles and plants his hands on his hips as he rocks back on his heels. At least he’s a jolly man. “Where. Ya. Aff. Tae.”
Aff tae.
Aff tae.
Off . . . tae.
OFF TO!
Good grief.
“Where are we off to?” I nearly shout, feeling like I just answered a Jeopardy! question correctly.
What is, “I don’t understand a damn thing this man is saying,” Alex.
“Aye.” He nods.
Okay, totally know what “aye” means. Man, we’re on a roll now.
“Corsekelly,” I say.
“Och. Aff tae see th’ Boaby Stane?”
There goes our streak.
“Boaby Stane?” I ask.
“Aye, Boaby.” He taps his crotch and then pelvic thrusts at us. “Boaby.”
“Boaby?”
“Aye.”
Tap. Thrust.
Boaby . . . Boaby . . . uh, drawing a blank.