Silence falls again quickly after the rude English rainbow leaves, but my mood isn’t so fast to bounce back. With a sigh, I get the Trangia out and make myself another coffee while she puts some distance between us. With any luck, she’s one of those surprisingly fast Southerners, the ones who are impatient to be everywhere all the time and tap their toes in shops if the queue take more than five seconds.
She seems like the toe tapping type.
I take my sweet time brewing my second cup and let it wash the rage away with every heavenly, bitter sip.
I woke with the dawn, wending my way out of town before anyone else was up. And all for this. The gentle morning light slanting through the dappled leaves, the birds chattering to each other in the trees. For my perfect, silent first cup of the day. No buildings. No cars. Nothing that smacks of civilisation, or people.
After weeks of meetings with caterers and decorators, visits from the bride and groom as they assessed and re-assessed the farm, of interruptions and changes and phone calls and people, I’m beyond ready for this walk. Five days of uninterruptedwilderness and solitude. Quiet contemplation. Exactly what I need.
And somehow the kaleidoscopic eyesore has already ruined it.
Who wears that many clashing colours? What sort of psychopath owns a hat that saysZestyabove a picture of a fucking orange?
Colours aside, her thigh-length shorts hug her legs in all the right places. When she stalked off, her arse was something else, too. And her eyes. Wide and wary, when she wasn’t glaring at me. The kind of blue that reminded me of wildflower meadows and open skies.
I groan. I amnotattracted to that harridan. I tick the reasons off in my head: too loud. Too colourful. Too inept. Too city.
There are two types of women I’m drawn to, or who are drawn to me: competent, have-their-shit-together outdoorsy women looking for a bit of fun and no commitment, and high-maintenance, high-heel wearing corporate types who want to slum it for a night.
Zestyis neither of those.
Right now, I’m not looking for anything. And even if I was, it sure as hell wouldn’t be with the walking billboard, even if she does have model legs.
Time to hit the road. I pack up the Trangia and hoist my bag onto my back, grunting at the weight. Maybe it is a little unnecessary to bring two sleeping mats, but ever since I turned thirty-five, my back has started getting antsy about sleeping on the floor, and I need to be fully functional at the end of this walk.
My brothers, Mason and Ross, have come up for the week to cover me, and to help ready the farm for this wedding, but I can’t ask them to do all the work without me. This is our first event since the farm’s transformation: the job that will make or break the business’s future.
I should be there. I should be there right now.
When we accepted the booking, it was for June, not May. But then the groom got invited to a once-in-a-lifetime holiday and asked if we could move it.
“What’s more once-in-a-lifetime than his own wedding?” my best friend Stuart said when the request came in.
“Cruise on Zendaya’s private yacht apparently,” I read over his shoulder.
The reason doesn’t matter. It’s our first booking. Ouronlybooking. The booking upon which all other possible future bookings rest. The bride and groom are wealthy, influential and connected. If we get this right, it will set us up perfectly.
If we fuck it, then it’s back to square one.
It’s not anyone’s fault they asked for this week, of all weeks.
I wouldn’t have come, but Stuart insisted. Practically packed my bag for me.
“No one wants a grieving arsehole crying into the table decorations, Angus. Besides, you’ve done your bit. Let us do ours.”
And now here I am.
The familiar weight settles onto my shoulders. I check my straps, pull on my cap. The first section is the easiest, and I make good progress, letting the beauty of the scenery seep into my soul.
Before he passed, Da and I did the walk together every summer. Have done since I was sixteen – barring the awful year I spent in London, and the one he was so ill he could barely stand – and I’ve never found it any less: any less beautiful, any less peaceful, any less perfect. Nothing can match the magic of the Highlands, not to me.
The morning is all rolling fields and an easy path that hugs the bottom of the valley before a gentle climb back under the trees. It’s simple walking, pleasurable, no great heights or uneasy clambering to break my stride.
It rained last night, so now everything is lush and green. My nose fills with the smell of rich, loamy soil and damp undergrowth. Grey clouds gather overhead, and it’s not long before a fine drizzle descends, quickly turning into a downpour. I retrieve my waterproof trousers and jacket, pull the cover over my bag and trudge on, safe and comfortable under my layers.
I spare a moment’s thought for the kaleidoscope, feeling a twinge when I imagine her in this. I doubt she’s got a waterproof with her. She’s probably miserable, cold and wet, that neon vest offering hardly any resistance to the damp.
What’s she even doing out here? Sure, the West Highland Way isn’t an overly difficult walk, but it still requires planning. Preparation. The grit to step out of your front door with nothing but a bag, ready to face the world alone. Most people who walk it have some idea of what they’re doing. Miss Couldn’t-Fasten-Her-Bag-Strap has clearly never been on a day hike, let alone something like this.
