Page 1 of Some Like It Scot
Prologue
I’d love to say I became famous because of my excellent writing skills.
Doesn’t that sound like a superb reason for fame? Or, at the very least, a wonderful way to pay the bills.
“Hi, my name is Katie Campbell, and I actually write well enough to pay my bills.” I know of dozens of excellent authors who’d love to make that claim.
But no, I am not one of the top travel writers forWorld on a Page’s international magazine because of my captivating prose (which is decent but not Austen) or my insightful descriptions (which I can do, sometimes) or my breathtaking narrative adventures (okay, breathtaking due to laughter). No, I am internationally known as a travel writer because of mymisadventures.
These have garnered me the memorable and somewhat embarrassing moniker Miss Adventure and have led to my popular articles, a few documentaries, plus an award-winning podcast titledWhere in the World Is Miss Adventure?
What could have initiated such a claim to fame? A series of mishaps crossing three different countries and consecutively involving a one-horned bull (now he has one horn), an engagement ring and a sand trap (the ring wasn’t for me), and a psychotic penguin (you had to be there).
I shouldn’t really be surprised. My grandpa used to say that the only grace I had was the grace of God. If he could see me now, hewould proclaim himself a prophet, because whoevergets paid for their clumsiness? Or making mistakes? Or being ridiculous?
Me, y’all. It’s me. I’m the problem.
So here I am. Falling, quite literally most times, into life as a travel writer whose buffoonery makes money. Truth be told, trouble finds me in ways almost mythical. And though I enjoy a good laugh as well as the next person, living a story of successive blunders is starting to get a little old.
For me. Not the readers.
And to be honest, though the attention is nice, I’d really like to be known for more than my ineptitude, poor timing, and... bad luck. But traveling doesn’t really equate with staying anywhere long enough to belong, so until I can get my children’s books published, misadventures are my stories to tell.
And Miss Adventure... is me.
Chapter 1
“Traveling is what I do, Dave.” I pinched my phone between my shoulder and cheek, freeing my hands to grab my camera, and tapped my long-suffering taxi driver on the shoulder. “It’s why you pay me, remember?”
Archie sent me a good-natured squint over his shoulder from the driver’s seat. The friendly Scot had gotten accustomed to my picture-taking obsession about thirty minutes into our one-hour drive from the ferry drop-off on the Isle of Mull to my final location, Craighill House.
“And you’re great at it.” My boss’s tone clearly hinted at a teeny bit of frustration at my reticence. “But you’re also an excellent writer and encourager. You have a gift, and I’ve worked with you long enough to know you’d make a top-notch editor.”
I gestured toward the window with my camera, where a sliver of aqua river split rows of mossy green hills in a curvy line, all cloaked in a halo of late-morning sunshine and mist. Surely we couldn’t pass by the beauty without trying to capture another photo!
Archie pulled the taxi over to the side of the narrow road and met my gaze in the rearview mirror, a smile crinkling his face.
Well, at least he didn’t mind stopping every five minutes.
“The view,” I whispered. “Those hills, Archie!”
The driver offered an exasperated sigh tempered by the twinkle in his pale eyes. “It’s the same bràigh as before, lass.”
My grin took an upswing at the sound of the moniker. Why had I waited so long to take an assignment in Scotland? Me, of all people.A third-generation Scottish American! I really should be ashamed of myself. Especially when the burr of that wordlassbrought back all sorts of the best memories of summers with my grandparents. The resident twinkle in Archie’s eyes even looked a little like my grandpa’s.
“But it looks different from this angle,” I shot back, offering him a grin and an apologetic shrug before extracting myself from my seat belt. “Don’t want my faithful followers to miss out on the exquisite beauty of the Highlands now, do we?”
I heard Archie’s low chuckle brew beneath Dave’s response on the phone: “Exactly.”
Archie nodded and tapped his derby. “Dinnae fash yeself.” His smile was edged with mischief. “I got all day as long as you got the money.” He patted his digital meter on the dash and offered an impish wink.
I couldn’t help but laugh. If the rest of the Scots oozed with such welcome, spending three weeks here was sure to be a blast. And why shouldn’t Archie grin? My visceral need to take photos every five minutes earned him a pretty full purse!
“You’re great at getting new followers, and I’m not contesting that,” Dave continued as I slipped out of the cute, little blue Volkswagen into the breezy July air. You’re one of the best travel writers I have—probablythebest at bringing in new readers for the magazine, both online and in print.”
“And why would you want to go messing with that success, Dave?” I switched the phone to speaker and tucked it into the top of my jeans so my hands were free to take photos, but truly, the pictures couldn’t do this landscape justice. The stark contrast between the foreboding brownish mountains in the distance with the fog-covered, lush emerald hills in the foreground, all topped by molten gold as sunshine squeezed through some remnant clouds? Breathtaking. Otherworldly. My travel blog readers—not to mention the magazine audience—were going to be ecstatic.
I flinched as the teeniest bit of longing hit me square in the chest out of nowhere. With a deep breath, I rubbed my fingers into the spot. Grief often came out of nowhere.
