Thig bo mhaol odhar a steach an t-Aitmor
agus leigeas I geum aist ‘chuireas na
se beannagan dheth an tiggh dhige.
A saying of Coinneach Odhar, The Brahan Seer
CHAPTER 43 EASTER ROSS.
“Maybe we should come back when the sun shines,” said Effie Hebron. “If it ever shines here.”
“No time,” said Joe. He could barely see the far side of Kessock Bridge,
Effie gave up straining through the rain spattered windows at the clouds and squalls and sat back in the cars soft seat to consult the screen. “Well this is the Black Isle. Except it isn’t an island. Just a peninsular between the Cromarty Firth and the Moray Firth. Why would they call it an island?”
“Don’t know.” He was sounding nervous and distant these days.
The bridge reached a red rock cliff face with bungalows and new houses on the left above Beauly Firth.
“Nice place to retire to?” asked Effie.
“Too cold. To many hills,” said Joe. “It’s not damned flat enough.”
“Maybe further on.”
Joe was silent.
“Munlochy should be up here on the right, the A832.”
“OK.” Joe silently left the four lane for a narrower twisty two lane. At one point the rain gave up and he was able to stop in the Black Isle and Mid Ross Wildfowlers Club car park. A cement rendered hide perched on what might have been an old railway embankment. From here Joe could look between the steep shores of Munlochy Bay to the Moray Firth beyond. He fancied that through the returning rain storms he could even see the far shore somewhere near Culloden.
“Come on you’ll get wet.” Called Effie as the rain started to spatter on the car. “What does that notice say?”
“It’s pictures of the birds your supposed to see out there in the nature reserve.”
“Could you see any?”
“No. Just a lot of mud.” Joe drove to Avoch. Stone buildings and empty rain lashed pavements. A shore where grey waves tore at boats sheltering in small harbours or drawn up by the road.
“No flat land anywhere.”
“There’s supposed to be an old Abbey here at Fortrose,” said Effie.
“Right.” He wasn’t stopping. “Is this Chanonry Point? Down here?”
It was a golf course, probably a good one if there wasn’t a hurricane. The road ended where the land petered out. A few small houses, a few parked cars. A few people in full wet weather gear determined to see dolphins through the rain and wind blown spray. A sign said the area was liable to flooding and check with the met office.
“Well, I’ve come this far.” Joe pushed the steering wheel up and struggled into a waterproof.
“Oh shut the door. The computers wet.”
“OK.” Joe hunched into the wind past picnic tables to the shingle beach.
He could just make out the low buildings of Fort George on the opposite spit of land to this one. Beyond that again the land rose into dim blue hills, and a cloud of white smoke from a factory, somewhere near Inverness airport. Then the coast ran invisibly away towards the east where Virgin Galactic launched space tourists from RAF Lossiemouth.1
On the right the big Kessock Bridge led down into Inverness. The city and a few anchored tankers were being hidden by squalls. Away to the left, beyond the rather short light house, was deep grey water, eye stinging salt spray and a sky almost solid with another storm.
“Careful you don’t get the seat wet,” said Effie. “How is it?”
“It’s not the place. But….Oh I’ll Know it when I see it.”
“Maybe we should be looking at somewhere nearer the equator?”
“Maybe. I heard the Brits were looking to find an African politician to negotiate with. But They're more likely to pay for something in UK.”
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