Page 46 of Priceless
But he was already bending over one of the enormous round boulders, wrapping his arms around it with exaggerated effort. His face turned red as he strained against the stone, managing to shift it maybe an inch before a security guard came running.
"Oi! Ye there! Too old for that nonsense, aren't ye? Ye dinnae read the sign?"
Jacob straightened slowly, hands raised in surrender, looking properly chastened as the guard continued his lectureabout respecting historical artifacts and setting a good example for the children.
"Sorry, sorry," Jacob mumbled, backing away from the stone. "Wasn't thinkin’."
As we walked back toward the car, I could see him trying not to sulk.
"Ye know," he said finally, "I lift barrels of whisky all the time that are at least half as heavy as that stone. Put ‘em right on my shoulder."
"I'm sure you do," I said, trying to keep the amusement out of my voice.
"I do! Proper heavy, they are. Ask anyone at the pub."
Still showing off, I realized. Even after being scolded like a schoolboy, he was still trying to impress me. It was endearing and ridiculous and completely charming all at once.
From Urquhart, we drove west to a place called Glen Affric. The landscape grew wilder and more dramatic with each mile. When we finally parked and began hiking up into the hills, I understood why Jacob had insisted we come.
"Most beautiful glen in Scotland," he said as we climbed, slightly breathless but still talking. "And considerin’ the competition, that's saying somethin’."
He wasn't exaggerating. From our viewpoint high above the valley floor, Glen Affric spread out like a painted canvas. Ancient pines with long copper trunks dotted the landscape. The River Affric was a ribbon of silver that wound through the bottom of the valley before disappearing into the loch. The loch itself stretched away from us between mountains that looked like they went on forever.
More magic. And though I hadn’t seen much of the world at all, I had my own epiphany—I knew in my bones that there was nowhere else in the world that could rival this place.
The air smelled like flowers and grass and pine, earthy and clean. Clouds moved across the peaks in a slow dance, casting shadows that chased patches of sunlight across the wild land of tan and green and purple. In the distance, rain fell in gray sheets over one mountain while sunshine bathed the next in gold.
Jacob pointed out grouse that popped up and called out. He called the birds curlews, and when combined with the bleating of distant sheep, it all made a relaxing track of background music.
"My grandda used to bring me here to fish," Jacob said, settling beside me on a fallen log and pulling our picnic from his backpack. "Right down there in the river. Swore the trout were the size of salmon, and the salmon big as sharks."
"Were they?"
"Ach, no. Lucky if we caught anything longer than my hand. But by the time we got back to town, Grandda's stories had grown so big that even I believed them. And then I'd be telling the same tales to anyone who'd listen, making them bigger still."
He handed me a sandwich—thick bread, good cheese, apple chutney and ham. "Ye'll want to eat something," he said. "Trust me on this."
"I'm still full from breakfast."
"Aye, but our next stop is a distillery. Ye’ll not want an empty gullet then. Trust me.”
I trusted him, and I was glad I had.
The distillery was tucked into a valley about twenty minutes away, a collection of white buildings with distinctive pagoda roofs. Inside, the air was warm and rich with the smell of oak and fermenting grain.
"Jocko!" The tour guide, a woman with silver hair, wearing layers of mismatched shirts, greeted Jacob with a kiss on his cheek. "What brings ye here today?"
"Just showin’ off Scotland to a visitor," he said, and introduced me.
Though I felt like someone had just walked over my grave, I fumbled through the introduction and tried to sound coherent, but I was still stunned that she’d called JacobJocko.When she turned away to gather the rest of the tourists together, I had to speak up.
“She called you Jocko.” I watched his face closely, praying he could explain. It was just too much of a coincidence, wasn’t it? Jocko was the guy in my pocket.
Jacob laughed and shook his head. “I’m a regular customer, but they pair my face with the pub. My grandda before me. He was Jocko, as his own grandda before him was called Jocko. That’s how long we’ve been part of the trade.
“If the pub were called White Hart, she would have greeted me as White Hart. It might be a tradition known only to the liquor industry. I dinnae ken. But even my own team call me Jocko from time to time, though usually when speakin’ about me, nottome.”
"Is Jocko a common name in Scotland?"
