“You know, the town feels more like a pit stop rather than a place to live,” I say to Dakota, who’s busy staring out the window, taking in Corsekelly just as much as I am.
“But there is nothing touristy about it besides that tour bus parked in front of . . . I think that’s a hotel. That’s kind of nice. It will feel like we’re tucked away.”
“True.” I nod. “And I love the wooden signs hanging above every door.” Driving extra slow, I read them out loud. “FERGIE’S CASTLE. THE ADMIRAL. UNDER THE GOAT’S KILT INN—bet that doesn’t smell very good.” We both laugh, and I steer us down the stone-paved road. “THE MILL MARKET, BUBBLES LINEN BASKET, PARLAN’S PUMP PETROL, MURDACH’S WEE BAKESHOP, COFFEE . . . wait, coffee? Is that . . . that ‘coffee house’？” I ask, grimacing as we draw even with a lackluster building.
Framed in white clay like the rest of the town, its only distinguishing features are a red door and a sign above it that spells out COFFEE. Two weathered picnic tables rest under each red-framed window, but that’s as far as the charm goes.
Uh, we left Los Angeles for this?
It looks like the door is one gust of wind away from being torn off its hinges.
Where’s the charm?
Where’s the cute wooden sign?
Where’s the plaid? Shouldn’t there be plaid somewhere?
For heaven’s sake, where is the plaid?
“Yes, it is,” Dakota says, not even fazed.
“Wow, they sure know how to advertise their wares.” I chuckle. “Where’s the cute name?”
“They’re direct. That has to be admired. Finella said there’s parking around the corner, where we’ll be staying.”
“Okay.” I round the corner and follow a gravel driveway that takes us under a canopy of trees. “Are we going the right way?” I ask as the road gets tighter and tighter.
“I think so. She said the cottage is just past the trees.”
Driving no more than ten miles per hour, we bump along the road and finally reach a tiny white clay cottage with a thatched roof.
“Umm, did we just drive into a Disney movie and I didn’t notice?” I ask.
A thatched roof . . . a legit, real, thatched roof. I think the last time I saw one of those was in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.
And . . . is that a . . . ?
“Oh hell no.” I shake my head, pointing to the well that’s right next to the house. “Does this place not have plumbing? I did not sign up to fetch the water for the bath.”
“It has all the amenities we need,” Dakota says, opening her car door.
I grip her arm and keep her in place. “When you say ‘amenities,’ does that include running water?”
“Yes,” she says, exasperated. “You act like our plane was a time machine and I brought you back to the Middle Ages.”
“Sorry if I’m startled by a thatched roof and a well, but that’s a legit concern. Did you see the gas station back there? I’m not sure it even works.”
“It’s called a petrol pump, and it works. This isn’t LA, Bonnie, something you should keep in mind. This is a simpler way of living. Relax and enjoy the slower pace.”
She’s right. Before making assumptions, I should really get to know the place first.
I’m here for adventure.
I’m here to figure out what I want to do with my life.
And making prejudgments is not going to do me any good.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” I let out a deep breath. “The road trip was long, and my hand is sore from holding the rope. I promise once we get some food, I’ll be much better.”
Just as we exit the car, the front door to the cottage opens, and a short lady who looks to be in her sixties steps out. She has dark-brown hair, peppered with silver streaks, and an apron cinched around her waist.
“You must be Dakota,” she says, walking over with a welcoming smile.
Dakota was right—a very pretty accent, and one I can easily understand.
Thank God.
“Finella, it’s so great to finally meet you.” Dakota hugs the woman and then beckons me over. “This is my best friend, Bonnie.”
“Aye, Bonnie, ’tis a beautiful name. Means ‘pretty’ here in Scotland, and it seems to fit you perfectly.” She looks me up and down with a kind smile.
“Oh, thank you. I’ve been told I’m one-sixteenth Scottish.” I smile.
“Is that so?” She raises an eyebrow. “How lovely.”