Page 26 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle

As was so typical of many of the older dwellings in this part of Scotland, his house had been single-storey originally, but he’d put in a staircase, and was now in the process of converting the attic into a master bedroom with an en suite, and a study. There was another bedroom downstairs, which he currently slept in, and a family bathroom, so he was in no rush to finish the attic because he wanted to take his time and make sure it was done properly.

He was doing all the work himself, apart from the electrics and the plumbing, and there were only so many hours in the day during the summer months. Running three boat trips, seven days a week (weather permitting) meant he didn’t have a lot of free time. Winter was the season to do the renovations; it was also the season to work on the boat, such as servicing the engine, clearing the hull of algae and making any necessary repairs.

Och, who was he kidding! He wouldn’t be getting his toolbox out this evening. He didn’t want to be indoors hammering and sawing, when he could spend the evening on his lawn, with a cold beer in his hand and listening to music.

‘They’re not all for me,’ Freya explained, as the cashier gave her a sideways look when she put three bottles of Scotland’s finest malt on the conveyor belt. One of them was, though, and she was planning on having a wee dram with her dad to celebrate him coming home at the end of the week, as the doctor seemed pleased with his progress and the wound was healing well.

Freya was looking forward to getting him home and having some semblance of normality. Normality forhim, that is; nothing about being in Duncoorie was normal forher.

She’d soon settle into a routine, she told herself, aware that these past two weeks couldn’t possibly be indicative of the next few. And although she was anticipating things being hard for a while, they should get easier the more mobile and independent her dad became. However, she’d already made a promise to herself that she wouldn’t leave Skye too soon. She’d have to be convinced of his ability to cope alone before she returned to London.

Dad was going to find it hard, her being here. He was too used to his own space, his own routines and his own way of doing things, and she feared they might get on each other’s nerves fairly quickly. With that in mind, she vowed to try to stay out of his hair as much as possible. Him being downstairs and her being upstairs should help, in the beginning at least, until he demanded to sleep in his own bedroom – which he would want to do sooner rather than later, she guessed.

Freya could continue to work, after a fashion. Obviously, she wouldn’t be able to throw any pots or do anything with clay, but she’d be able to design new pieces. In fact, taking a step away from the studio might be good for her. She couldn’t remember when she’d last had time to devote purely to designing, to think of nothing except colour and form. Skye was the perfect place to do that. The island had been such a massive influence on her early work, and it would be good to reconnect with it. She could view this enforced, extended visit as a chance to escape from city life, and think of it as a holiday and the opportunity to spend time with her lovely dad.

With the shopping now packed and paid for, Freya drove the thirty-minute journey from the supermarket in Portree back to Duncoorie. She was soon filling the cupboards, freezer and fridge with all kinds of goodies, some of which she knew her dad would turn his nose up at. Avocados were one, and chia seeds were another. But she’d made sure to include his favourites, and she smiled as she placed the bottle of whisky on the sideboard.

On second thoughts—

Freya took it back to the kitchen, not wanting it to be too easy to reach. The last thing she needed was for her dad to overindulge and have another fall.

Feeling like the whisky police, she put the bottle on top of a cupboard, then picked up the other two. Now was as good a time as any to deliver them, and she’d take a look at the craft centre while she was at it. She hadn’t been to Coorie Castle for years, although she used to love the woodland behind it and the loch.

The loch…

It was time she made her peace with it. Freya hadn’t been near it since she and her dad had scattered her mother’s ashes, but if she was to be here for several more weeks, maybe she should. Living in London meant that she hadn’t had to confront her grief often and when it did threaten to rise up, she dammed it behind a wall of busyness and activity. Usually, she would retreat to her studio, but sometimes she would throw herself into her college work, or she would visit a museum or see a play – anything to stop her thinking about her mother.

But whenever she visited Duncoorie, she was unable to escape her thoughts, her memories, her sadness. And not once in all those years had she felt any inclination to go down to the loch.

She set off, heading for the track leading from the village to the castle, following the shoreline, and she paused as the loch came into view. It was a glorious day, warm and peaceful. The sea was calm, the waves lapping gently against the rocks, and Freya sat for a moment, letting the stillness of the afternoon flow over her.

She abruptly realised how much she’d missed the glitter of the sun on the water, the birdsong in the trees, and the tang of salt and seaweed. She breathed deeply, drawing the air down into her lungs, and held it, letting it out slowly, closing her eyes.

Expecting grief to rise up and overwhelm her, she was surprised to find that it didn’t, and her tension slowly drained away.

After a while she got to her feet and resumed her walk, her eyes scanning the ever-changing loch and the mountains on the opposite shore. All this and more had inspired her creativity when she’d first begun making ceramics, and the further she ventured from the house, the more she felt as though she was being transported back in time to when she was seventeen and preparing a portfolio to take with her to her interview at the very college where she now lectured.

Smiling ruefully, she recalled how keen she’d been to get away, how eager she’d been to experience the world and how desperate to make her mum proud. She still was. If only her mother could see her now… Never in a thousand years had Freya dreamt that she’d be lecturing in a renowned art college and have an offer to become the course director in another, while also having made a name for herself in the world of ceramics.

The path veered away from the loch and as she strolled to the end of it, she could see the castle’s turrets poking up above the trees, and very soon the whole thing came into view.

She’d forgotten how magnificent it was. Despite having sites such as Buckingham Palace and the Tower of London practically on her doorstep, Coorie Castle exuded a wildness which was lacking in the historical buildings of England’s capital.

Seeing this Scottish castle, she could easily imagine how it must have looked when it was built in the thirteenth century, its purpose to put the fear of God into the English invaders. She almost expected to see men with swords guarding the entrance and archers positioned at the top of the towers.

The place had changed since she’d been here last, and she wondered whether Mhairi Gray still owned it. She couldn’t recall her dad saying anything about the castle changing hands, but the woman must be in her eighties, so she probably didn’t.

Whoever owned it now had done a considerable amount of work. There was a paved area in front of what she remembered being disused outbuildings, and in the corner where the two wings of those buildings met was a cafe called Coorie and Cuppa, and Freya smiled at the old Scots word coorie, which meant ‘cosy’. She also saw signs directing visitors to a maze, a duck pond, a children’s play area and a woodland walk.

A quick scan of the studios told her that there were a variety of crafts on the site, from blown glass to silver jewellery, as well as the gift shop that Tara had mentioned.

One end of the long building, the one nearest, housed the largest of the workshops, and she wandered inside to see a glass-blower hard at work. It was hot in there, with several furnaces going, and she wondered how he stuck it. Today wasn’t even particularly warm, yet the heat was stifling, even with a good few metres and a counter between her and the fires.

There was a printed sign explaining what the various furnaces were for, which she examined with interest, chuckling to herself when she read that one of them – used for reheating the glass to soften it so it could be worked further or kept hot enough to avoid it cracking – was called a ‘glory hole’.

She watched for a while, fascinated as the man rolled a long pole with a blob of orange-white molten material on the end, the glass gradually changing shape, lengthening and widening as he worked it.

Eventually, her attention was drawn to the far end of the room where there was another glass workshop, and when she moved closer, she saw that the area was dedicated to stained glass. There wasn’t quite as much drama here, so she contented herself with studying the many completed or semi-completed pieces that were dotted around the space.

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