her father's funeral. Even now, two years later, she sometimes had to stop herself from dialling the number. After all, dead men don't answer the phone.
Rhona pulled off the road and found the path that skirted the hill and led down to the beach. She had intended to rush past the cottage, head for Broadford and stay the night there. Now it didn't seem so difficult to see it. Maybe she could stay nearby after all.
The path to the beach was well trodden and the front door of the house and the boat shed had been painted a bright Saltire blue. Rhona was suddenly glad she had agreed to rent the cottage to Sabhal Mor Ostaig, the Gaelic college, for one of its teachers. Whoever had moved in was taking care of the place.
A young man came out of the boat shed, whistling. He didn't see Rhona at first and stopped to gaze over the water to Knoydart. Rhona followed his gaze.
'The view from Arainn Chalium Chille across to Knoydart has been described as the most stirring in the world,' he said, acknowledging her presence. 'That's what they told me when I applied for the job at the college.' His voice was low but definitely North Atlantic. 'To be truthful, it was probably why I took it.'
Rhona did a quick calculation and came up with Cape Breton. The Gaelic College had strong links with a similar establishment in Cape Breton. Exchanges were commonplace.
'I always thought the view from the cottage was even better than the view from the college.'
'You know the cottage?' He looked round at it affectionately.
'I know it well. I lived here once.'
'Then you'd better come inside and have a coffee.'
The last time Rhona had stepped through the doorway, she had been clearing the cottage of her father's things. It had taken her a year after his death to do that. She had carted everything to Glasgow, given his clothes to a charity shop and stacked her shelves with his books.
Now the shelves in the living room were filled with books again. Rhona ran an eye over the Gaelic titles.
The young man brought her a mug of coffee from the kitchen and waved her to a seat beside the newly lit fire. He had made the room his own, but the old comfort was still there.
'I'm Norman MacLeod,' he told her, 'from St Ann's Bay, Cape Breton Island.'
'Rhona MacLeod, sometime Skye, now Glasgow.'
They shook hands, laughing at the coincidence of their shared name.
'How long have you been here?'
'Since September.'
They talked about the Gaelic College and the resurgence in the language and culture of the Gaels. Her host was almost evangelical in his enthusiasm for the language
As she left, he recommended a new B&B five miles further on. Rhona had already made up her mind to head for Broadford, but let him go back to his desk to collect the leaflet anyway.
She turned back when she reached the car. Norman MacLeod had followed her progress and was giving her a last wave as she climbed in and drove off.
When she reached Broadford, Rhona drove straight through and headed on to catch the ferry at Sconser. She phoned the Raasay Post Office from the ferry terminal and asked if there was a room free. Mrs MacMurdo sounded surprised and delighted to get a visitor so early in the season.
The crossing took fifteen minutes. Rhona left her car and went up on deck to take in the view. Raasay House, Taigh Mor an teilean , 'The Big House on the Island', stood in the southwest corner, May sunshine washing its gracious facade with a golden light. On the slope of lush green grass that led to Raasay Sound, distant figures ran about as if in a game.
Andre had reminded her of its story. When the Raasay MacLeods chose to support the Jacobite cause, government troops burned down all homes on the island, including Raasay House, then set about raping the women and murdering the men.
'It didn't stop the local people smuggling Prince Charles Edward Stuart onto the island and off again in his search for a way back to France.'
'Americans have a romantic view of Scottish history,' she had
Rhona pulled off the road and found the path that skirted the hill and led down to the beach. She had intended to rush past the cottage, head for Broadford and stay the night there. Now it didn't seem so difficult to see it. Maybe she could stay nearby after all.
The path to the beach was well trodden and the front door of the house and the boat shed had been painted a bright Saltire blue. Rhona was suddenly glad she had agreed to rent the cottage to Sabhal Mor Ostaig, the Gaelic college, for one of its teachers. Whoever had moved in was taking care of the place.
A young man came out of the boat shed, whistling. He didn't see Rhona at first and stopped to gaze over the water to Knoydart. Rhona followed his gaze.
'The view from Arainn Chalium Chille across to Knoydart has been described as the most stirring in the world,' he said, acknowledging her presence. 'That's what they told me when I applied for the job at the college.' His voice was low but definitely North Atlantic. 'To be truthful, it was probably why I took it.'
Rhona did a quick calculation and came up with Cape Breton. The Gaelic College had strong links with a similar establishment in Cape Breton. Exchanges were commonplace.
'I always thought the view from the cottage was even better than the view from the college.'
'You know the cottage?' He looked round at it affectionately.
'I know it well. I lived here once.'
'Then you'd better come inside and have a coffee.'
The last time Rhona had stepped through the doorway, she had been clearing the cottage of her father's things. It had taken her a year after his death to do that. She had carted everything to Glasgow, given his clothes to a charity shop and stacked her shelves with his books.
Now the shelves in the living room were filled with books again. Rhona ran an eye over the Gaelic titles.
The young man brought her a mug of coffee from the kitchen and waved her to a seat beside the newly lit fire. He had made the room his own, but the old comfort was still there.
'I'm Norman MacLeod,' he told her, 'from St Ann's Bay, Cape Breton Island.'
'Rhona MacLeod, sometime Skye, now Glasgow.'
They shook hands, laughing at the coincidence of their shared name.
'How long have you been here?'
'Since September.'
They talked about the Gaelic College and the resurgence in the language and culture of the Gaels. Her host was almost evangelical in his enthusiasm for the language
As she left, he recommended a new B&B five miles further on. Rhona had already made up her mind to head for Broadford, but let him go back to his desk to collect the leaflet anyway.
She turned back when she reached the car. Norman MacLeod had followed her progress and was giving her a last wave as she climbed in and drove off.
When she reached Broadford, Rhona drove straight through and headed on to catch the ferry at Sconser. She phoned the Raasay Post Office from the ferry terminal and asked if there was a room free. Mrs MacMurdo sounded surprised and delighted to get a visitor so early in the season.
The crossing took fifteen minutes. Rhona left her car and went up on deck to take in the view. Raasay House, Taigh Mor an teilean , 'The Big House on the Island', stood in the southwest corner, May sunshine washing its gracious facade with a golden light. On the slope of lush green grass that led to Raasay Sound, distant figures ran about as if in a game.
Andre had reminded her of its story. When the Raasay MacLeods chose to support the Jacobite cause, government troops burned down all homes on the island, including Raasay House, then set about raping the women and murdering the men.
'It didn't stop the local people smuggling Prince Charles Edward Stuart onto the island and off again in his search for a way back to France.'
'Americans have a romantic view of Scottish history,' she had
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