Here’s three small pearls of wisdom for you.

 

1. Don’t leave your tubes of brilliant-white toothpaste and your extra-strong Voltarin backrub next to one another on the bathroom sink. They both have flat caps so they can stand upright, and confusing them - in say, a moment of slight inebriation - can result in unnecessary suffering.
   At best, you end up with a sticky, deeply unsatisfying mess around your lumbar region or, worse case scenario, you’ll endure a prolonged period of gum numbing, tooth aching, tongue tingling hell that not even an entire bottle of Australian Shiraz can alleviate.

2. Never be tempted to use your ex-wife’s hair mousse thinking that it’s a styling gel. The smell of burning follicles along with the very sobering realisation that you’ve just smothered your entire scalp with hair remover, is an extremely stressful event. However, the squeaky clean, smooth silkiness that lasts for several days afterwards - in the event that you managed to rinse it all out in time - is quite remarkable.

3. And never, ever, assume that inheriting a Chateau, Castle or - as in my case - a sixteenth century Broch (a kind of Scottish tower) is actually an auspicious event. Chances are, nobody else wants the damned thing.

                                                                ***

 

 

 

Unwelcome Arrival

 

I parked Saperé in about twelve feet of water in the quietest corner of the small harbour, and from under the protection of her cockpit cover I tried my best to spy the landscape that lay before me. Rain pounded upon the canvas and flattened the water pond-like, but I could see that the long dock, despite the deluge, seemed to be busy with people.
I considered waiting out the rain but knew that would be a futile gesture. I was already wet through. Everything was damp and, through previous emails with the owner of the Raven Inn, I knew that I was expected. And right then, the prospect of a pint of local ale and maybe a plate of fried fish and chips seemed worth the risk of dying from exposure. I secured the boat, lowered the dinghy into the water, grabbed my ready bag, and then rowed the short distance to the dock.

As I drew near, I noticed that there were two police launches taking up much of the space, and I was forced to tie up at the outer end of the concrete structure. Bag in hand and waterproof hood drawn-in tightly, I headed off in the direction that didn't drop off the end off the dock, hopefully towards the comfort of the inn. However, in order to get there, I was forced to pass the small crowd of people that blocked my way.

A police officer spotted me and stepped towards me, thwarting my progress. ‘Where have you come from?’ he asked.

‘From that boat. I’m heading to the inn,’ I informed him.

‘No day for tourists,’ he countered.

‘I’m not a tourist, I’m a resident. One that is wet and tired and hungry after a long journey,’ I reassured him.

‘Well, you’ll have to wait a weewhile while we get Mr Long aboard.’ He said wee while as if was all one word, and he nodded with his head towards the crowd.

I followed his gaze and watched as four men passed an object from the dock onto the deck of one of the police vessels. It was an object I recognised.

A slick, black, body bag.

‘Bad timing,’ I sighed.

‘Just wait. They’ll head back once he’s aboard.’ He sauntered back towards his post, and I didn't bother trying to get anything more out of him. I knew the rules. They were an element of my blood.

A bit like wine, really.

The dock had a high sea wall, and I spotted a wooden bench which looked like it might be supporting the entire dilapidated structure, and I took a seat gingerly upon it and watched the proceedings. Fortunately, it wasn’t long before Mr Long was secured, the two vessels started up their engines and purred their way out of the harbour, the crowd shuffled back towards their abodes, and I was free to continue on my way. However, someone stood right in the middle of the dock, forcing a confrontation. It was a woman. Her hands were thrust deeply into the pockets of a long, woollen coat. Her head and face were uncovered, and her complexion looked to be hewn from the same type of granite from which the tiny island itself was forged.

‘Who are you’? she demanded.

‘Someone who wants to get to the inn,’ I replied, patiently enough in my opinion.

‘It’s not a good day to visit.’

I considered a suitable reply, but looking at the stone in her eyes, I realised that nothing I could say would suffice, so I slowly pushed by her and resumed my trek, walking carefully in the wake of the rest of the small crowd, my head down to keep the rain from my face, and my small bag feeling like a lead weight attached to the end of my arm. It was thus I noticed the surface of the dock turn to a puddle-strewn gravel roadway, and expecting to find a proper strip of tarmac, I stopped and looked around me.
There was no road, but there was the Raven Inn. It was an imposing whitewashed building with large, exposed, black, supporting columns and beams, and it squatted at the edge of the bay as if it was the gateway to the island. Which I suppose was the intended effect. To its right, arching away around the bay into the gloom was a long row of small cottages that I suspected were pretty enough, if only the sun would lend them a little radiance.
I located the main entrance of the inn and opened the door to be greeted by a blast of warm air, the smell of yeast, and the distinct sub-aroma of curry. A surprising, yet not disappointing note to the palate that made up the essential needs of this particular human being. I’m about six foot two, if I stand up straight, and I was forced to duck my way through the low ceiling beams and a variety of hanging ornaments towards the bar, where I located a long-haired man who looked to be in his late fifties, cleaning a dirty beer glass. I dropped my bag next to a stool and pushed my sodden hood away from my face.

‘I’m guessing you must be Robert, Mac, Macdonell. Retired pen pushing Civil Servant and new owner of the broch. Welcome to the Isle of Fitheach.’ He pronounced it Fithick.

‘Guilty,’ I admitted, peeling my way out of my waterproof jacket.

‘Wotallye have?’

‘I’m not normally a beer drinker, but I’ll try something smooth and creamy if you have it.’

I watched as Craig, as I knew him from our internet discussions, poured me a tall glass of thick-looking beer. He set it before me with a knowing twist upon his thin lips, and I soon realised why he looked so smug because the concoction tasted like nectar.

I grinned in satisfaction, and he grinned right back at me.

‘Ye avoided the mob?’ he asked.

‘Not entirely. A uniform and an angry woman made it clear I wasn’t welcome.’

Craig’s eyes clouded momentarily at my jargon for policeman, but he chose to ignore it, and I silently scolded myself for my clumsiness.

‘Dinny pay attention to her, laddie. That’ll be Molly Long. The Long’s think they own this island, when in fact, ye own far more of it than those f…’ he went to say fuckers, but managed to save himself, ‘folk.’

‘Who died?’ I asked.

‘Benny Long. Her old man. Went oot last night for the mainland. The police were alerted when his empty boot crashed into the dock at Mory. They searched all night, but twas Alfie in his wee fishing boot that found the body early this morning, not a mile east of this fair Isle.’

‘Long’s boat was on autopilot,’ I surmised. Mory was short for Tobermory, and that was a convoluted journey.

‘Aye. Lazy ‘ol bastard set waypoints all the way to his hoar’s hoos, not that I’m the man that said so.’ He winked at me.

It may have been raining, but the seas were calm the previous night. I should know, I was out on them.

‘Why would he have gone overboard?’ I wondered.

‘Only God knows. With the Long’s there’s nay telling,’ he started. And then he obviously thought better of it. ‘Talking of God, do ye have your payment to heaven?’ He looked up towards the ceiling.

‘I’m afraid it’s only that foul, English money,’ I smiled and bent down into my bag and retrieved the plastic sandwich bag containing the agreed, and very reasonable, six hundred pounds for a month’s room rental.

‘Good enough fa me,’ He took the bag without bothering to count its contents. ‘I’ll start ye a bar tab which ye can settle at the end of the month, before ye leave.’

‘Thank you, but I’ve got enough cash to settle weekly, if you prefer.’

‘There’s only ye at the moment,’ he ignored my offer. ‘Here’s the key. The room is clearly numbered. There’s enough hot water to boil a whale, and in case ye havne noticed, it’s a curry night tonight, but we can deep fry ye something frozen if ye prefer.’ He produced the key which was attached to a large piece of brightly painted wood.

‘You run this place by yourself?’

‘Nay, there’s the wife, Trish, and a handful of others. You’ll see Trish when we’re busy or she’s filling in fa me. Rest of the time she’s got her nose in the books.’

I didn't bother to ask if he meant accounting books or romantic novels. I finished off the beer and stood up from the stool. ‘Love curry. Need a long shower and an hour’s shut eye,’ I admitted.

‘Then best be off with ye.’ He nodded.

I suspect I smelled a bit like a whale.

The bedroom was more whitewash, more blackened beams, but it was well-sized, contained a welcoming-looking bed, a small table by the window where I could sit and look out over the bay, and a surprisingly large en-suite with a bath that even I could fit into. I let water flow and checked myself out in the cabinet mirror. It was not a pretty reflection. Living on the boat for the best part of a year had left me ragged, bearded, and long haired, but I thought I detected a decent tan lurking beneath the grime.
I waited for the bath to fill, sitting by the window. However, the rain kept me from seeing very much, so I emptied out my ready bag, hung up my clean shirt, jumper, and jeans in the hope that gravity might make them more presentable, and then I very nearly fell asleep in the luxuriousness of the bathwater. When I eventually made it to bed, I lay regarding the ceiling a while, feeling land-sick due to my extended period at sea, but it didn't last long as sleep soon prevailed.
When I next opened my eyes, it was pitch-black and there was the sound of a crowd fingering its way up through the cracks in the floorboards. I fumbled about with the bedside lamp and managed to find a cord that led to a switch, but the lamp that illuminated the room was barely a candle’s worth. Still, it allowed me to find the main light which was only marginally better. I reckoned there weren’t enough switches to fully chase away the gloom, but I managed to dress and then stomp my way down the wooden staircase that led to the lounge area.
My racket must have been alarming to those in the bar, because when I entered the room, the place was silent, and the gaze of at least twenty people were all fixed upon me.

‘Evening all,’ said I, sounding exactly like the copper I was hoping to elude.

And the entire gathering ignored me and resumed their own private conversations, whilst the clatter of their utensils upon their dinner plates added to the gentle cacophony. Unabashed, I made my way to the bar, found a stool, and then regarded the chalkboard which proclaimed, Fish Curry, Meat Curry, Veg Curry: 10 pounds. Or, a wee bit of everything: 12 pounds.

Craig appeared saying, ‘Try the wee bit of everything. Tis worth the extra two poonds.’

‘Sounds like a plan. Do you have any wine?’ I wondered.

Craig slid a plastic sheet across the counter towards me and I collected it with a sinking feeling in the pit of my belly, anticipating a terrible selection. To my amazement, it was exactly the opposite. There was a great selection of French and New World wines, many of which I knew to be very good, and all of them very reasonably priced.

‘Dinny looked so gobsmacked, we’re nay peasants, I’ll have ye know.’

‘Thrilled, not gobsmacked. I’ll take a bottle of the Clancy.’

‘With curry?’ he asked, disapprovingly.

‘Why not? I’ll start a trend.’

‘Then best grab a table or ye’ll be forced to eat at the bar.’ He snatched the wine menu from my hands.

Eating at the bar didn't bother me, but I’d already spied a corner table that would lend me a good view of the room, so I hurried over to it before it got taken. Apparently, Wednesdays was Curry Night at the Raven, and it was very popular with the locals.
I sent a warm smile to the elderly couple sat at the nearest table to me, and received frosty stares in response.

‘I’m not so bad underneath all the hair,’ I assured them.

But that didn't seem to really work.

A young woman approached bearing a wine bottle and two glasses. ‘This fa you?’ she demanded in a London accent.

‘I guess so, but I only need one glass.’

She plonked everything down on my table, ‘So take ya pick.’ She turned and made to walk away.

‘Hang on a moment, I’ve just had a bath, so I know I don’t smell bad, why the stinky attitude?’ I asked her.

She stopped and regarded me like I was a puddle in the road that needed circumnavigating. ‘Busy,’ she smiled sweetly, and headed off back towards her lair.

‘Don’t expect a tip,’ I said towards her departing back.

I don’t know what I’d expected. I’d read as much material I could find online about the Isle of Fitheach, but nowhere did it mention that the place was inhabited by a bunch of ignorant, unfriendly  f… folk, to use Craig’s terminology.

Shame I didn't inherit a château in the South of France.

Still, the wine was very nice, and when the girl returned with a generous platter of food, I sat back in my chair, and let her place it unceremoniously without even the slightest of witty ripostes passing my grimaced lips.
However, the curries were spectacular. The fish was a small selection of what I believed to be lobster, monkfish, shrimp, and a few, plump mussels in a rich, coconut sauce. The meat was lamb, and so tender I could cut it with my fork, and the vegetable dish was an ensemble of potato, a paneer that looked like it might have been home-made, and spinach.

With food like that, who needs neighbours?

Full and content, I relaxed and finished my wine and read a book I’d found in my room about a lone sailor marooned in his sinking life raft. The place was deserted by nine-thirty, and I moved to a table close to the fire where Craig joined me as his surly staff tidied up.

‘Make any new friends?’ he enquired.

‘Life-long,’ I agreed, ‘Great curry,’ I added.

‘Aye, that’ll be Binita’s. She of Binita’s Bhajis fame.’

‘She’s famous for her Bhajis?’

‘Aye, they make them here, and I transport them to the mainland.’

‘Industrious,’ I nodded approvingly.

‘Ach, well, the isles would be empty without a wee help from the government,’ he admitted.

‘Grants that might help me with the broch?’ I asked, hopefully.

‘I suspect so. The local rumour is you’re looking to turn the place into a hotel.’

‘Who started that one?’

‘Dinny matter, but the locals like things as they are,’ he huffed.

‘Hence my warm welcome.’

‘They’ll warm ta ye. Tomorrow, the rain will stop and the fog will blow away before noon. Ye can bring your wee boat and tie her up behind my own if ye draw less than four feet, and I’ll walk with ye up ta the broch, and we can discuss your needs, if you’re in a mind ta.’

‘I’d like that,’ I agreed.

‘If ye pokes your bonnet around the corner, Miss Ellie will sell ye a newspaper, and anything else ye might need.’

‘Good to know.’

‘Then I’d best help clean up.’ He left me, and a wee while later I returned to my room and read myself to sleep.

Come the next morning, the rain had ceased but a thick fog enveloped the island. A note from Craig had been slipped under my door saying that he’d had to leave on an emergency run for the mainland, and that I should help myself to eggs, bacon, and coffee from the kitchen. Instead, I poked my bonnet around the corner and located the island’s general store.

A bell jingled, announcing my arrival, and a high-pitched, female voice called from somewhere out back, ‘Just a mo, and I’ll be with you.’

While I waited for her, I looked at the shelves of fresh produce. The shop seemed to contain pretty much everything I might need, including a fair range of wines and spirits.

‘I’m assuming that ye must be Robert Macdonell.’ The female voice accused me.

I turned to see an elderly yet spritely, white-haired woman standing behind the checkout counter.

‘Did you know the Macdonell family?’ I asked.

‘Noo. They’d all passed or left before I was old enough to notice, but the legend never fades. I had noo idea there was a man in the family.’ She said no like it would rhyme with zoo. As did many of the islanders.

‘Are there not men in all families?’ I smiled.

‘Not in the Macdonell clan, noo,’ she replied.

‘What legend?’

‘What can I get you?’ She changed the subject.

I regarded her sharp, hawk-like features, and saw that they were chiselled from the same rock as those of Molly Long’s.

‘Well, a newspaper, I suppose,’ I yielded.

‘Now, would ye be wanting today’s newspaper or yesterday’s newspaper?’

‘Er, today’s would be nice,’ I informed her.

‘In which case, ye’d best come back on Friday,’ she informed me.

I sighed, partly in amusement. But not having read any current affairs for at least two weeks, like the idiot I was, I pushed onwards. ‘Then yesterday’s would be fine,’ I beamed at her.

‘Sold out,’ she beamed right back at me.

‘So, you don’t actually have any newspapers.’

‘Aye, we do,’ she bent down under the counter and reappeared with a bundle that she placed upon its glass top, ‘we have these, from two weeks ago.’

‘Great,’ I sighed.

‘Go and look by the fireside at the inn, Craig uses them to start his fire, ye might find a more recent one there,’ she advised.

‘Thank you,’ I nodded slowly.

‘Anything else I can help ye with?’ she asked.

‘Maybe on Friday.’

‘Good day to ye, then, Robert Macdonell.’

‘Good day,’ I agreed, and I left the shop with the tinkle of bells ringing in my ears.

I turned in the fog to head back to the inn, but a man, whose features were barely recognisable in the gloom, stood in my way, his face so close to my own, that we nearly bumped noses.

‘Jesus!’ I cursed in surprise, stepping away from him.

‘Jacob.’ The man laughed at my jumpiness. ‘I saw ye last night in the Raven,’ he added.

‘Which would have been a great place to have introduced yourself,’ I pointed out.

‘Aye, but not half as much fun.’

‘Well, if you’re going to buy a newspaper, ye’d best come back on Friday,’ I advised.

‘Nay, laddie, tis your own ear I want to bend.’

‘Bend away. You’ve all of thirty paces before I return to cook myself some bacon and eggs.’

‘I’ll buy the broch from you. Fifty grand up front and another fifty on completion.’ He startled me even more by saying.

‘Look, Mr Jacob, I haven’t even seen the place yet, let alone have I considered selling it.’

‘Surely you have. It’s just up yonder.’ He looked up, pointing with a long, boney finger.

I allowed my eyes to look up, just as a hole appeared in the fog, and several fingers of light illuminated the headland, and I got my first ever glimpse of Raven Broch.

It was massive and brooding in the distorted light. It resembled a cross between a lighthouse and a church. I just had time to witness its tumbled parapets and torn roofing, when it was once again consumed by haze. For a long moment I was mesmerised. I turned back to say something to Jacob, but the old man had walked away from me. In the gloom, I just about made out his form, and I heard him laugh, ‘I’ll give you till the end of next week. Tis your own decision, now that the hags are all gone.’

‘Hags?’ I shouted at him.

But he was lost to my eyes, and my flash of anger was absorbed by the mist. So, I returned to the inn and filled my belly with golden-yellow eggs and thick rashers of bacon, and more than one cup of coffee.

As predicted, the fog cleared. First of all, from the bay, allowing me an anxiety-relieving view of Saperé, followed by a fresh southwesterly that blew any remaining cobwebs from the rest of the island. I was desperate to walk up to the broch, but I forced myself to bring the boat to the dock where I tied her up in a shallow spot that I reckoned would leave Craig enough room. Saperé is fin keeled - her belly looking something like an Orca - and she can sit happily in a puddle without tipping, which is more than I can say for her owner who tips readily enough after a bottle or three decent vins rouges. Feeling steady enough, I spent the rest of the morning carrying damp clothing up to the inn and watching them tumble about in the clothes dryer that Craig had told me I could use. So, it wasn’t until later in the afternoon that I followed the track around the edge of the bay, passing the seemingly deserted row of multi-coloured houses, and then back on itself as it followed the incline of the hillside that protected the bay, up towards Raven Brock. The higher I got, the worse the track became.
The island has strict rules regarding transportation, meaning that unless you owned an electric cart for the sole purpose of transporting goods to and thro the dock, there wasn’t any. Actually, I was in firm favour of the green initiatives of the place. Electricity was provided by two, elegant-looking wind turbines and a large solar array situated on the south side of the island, on land owned by the only farmer. However, all cookers had to be propane or diesel, and the residents could only use high demand appliances at certain times of the day unless, like the inn, they had they’re own, low-noise generators.
Which is a rather long-winded way of explaining that the track didn't go all the way up to the broch. Furthermore, it stopped abruptly at a narrow, yet steep ravine at the bottom of which was a rather swollen river. I could see the remnants of an old bridge, but if I wanted to proceed, I’d need to get my feet wet. Wet feet had become a part of my new existence living on a boat, so I scampered down the grassy bank and found a decent sized rock to perch upon while I stripped my feet bare and found room for my boots and socks in the rucksack I wore. Clearly, getting building materials up to the site was not going to be straight forward. The water was surprisingly deep, and I could see that I couldn’t roll my jeans up high enough to keep them dry, so I climbed out of them and waded across in just my underpants, which was a rather stimulating experience, given the level that the water reached up to.

It took another half an hour to get dry and clothed and then find my way up to the broch.

Up close, and in bright daylight, the place didn't look as ominous as it had earlier that morning. The original broch dated back to the sixteen hundreds, and was a simple, stone-built tower used to illuminate the rocky and hazardous north end of the island for navigation purposes. The rest of the house had been added by my mother’s ancestors in the eighteen hundreds as a base for their fishing exploits. It’s true that records of the male members of that family were scant, but fishing was definitely a man’s domain back in those days, so there must have been a few of them knocking about somewhere behind the scenes. What was now left of the building was a half-height tower, supported by what once might have been a three-storey hall, added to which was a newer-looking two-storey structure which was built into the rising hillside so that its roof would have originally been the same height as the hall. Most of the roof was gone, but the stone walls looked straight and even, and well-constructed. There were numerous and illogically placed window openings dotted all over the facades, none of which were glazed.

The place would make a brilliant hotel.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath of ocean air and then, having reopened them, I turned in a tight circle about myself, holding my arms outstretched to either side of my body. It felt like the first proper breath I’d taken since joining the force, more than twenty years previously.

To the north, maybe three hundred feet below me, the ocean was responding to the breeze by kicking up a multitude of white-capped wavelets that shone brilliantly in the afternoon sun. In the far distance, I could see localised rain squalls that dumped their contents back into the water. Immediately to my left, I could look down the hillside towards the bay and its small, colourful community, where Saperé waited patiently at the dock for our next adventure. Also, I noticed that there was another pathway, nothing more than a goat-track, that dropped down directly to a smaller bay that lay hidden behind the public dock. There, hauled out of the water, resting on a concrete causeway, were two, modern-looking power vessels. One was a fishing vessel, and the other a pleasure craft of, at least to my mind, obscene aspect. A bit too Miami Vice for my liking. Technically, they were parked on my property. I put that thought away for another time and continued my survey, because behind me, to the south, the hillside rose gradually up to a tree-lined ridge where I could see dozens of black birds, hopefully the island’s resident ravens, soaring in the developing uplifts of the new breeze.

And a fair chunk of this marvel of nature and human endeavour was mine, should I so desire it.

What was obviously the main entrance to the hall-section of the broch was boarded up with sheets of delaminating plywood, but there was a large window opening just to its left which was exposed and granted me easy access within. I gingerly swung my legs over its threshold and stepped down onto the stone floor of the main hall and looked up into the cavernous space. There was no roof, and I could see the open sky above. However, I’d been right about there originally being three storeys as I could see the remains of the timbers that would have supported the floors. Interestingly, the space, which I estimated at being about forty feet long by thirty feet wide, was relatively empty and tidy. I’d expected a ton or so of rotting material piled up within, and there must have been at some stage, but someone had either burnt it all or had it removed, although I could see no evidence of fire. I touched the walls. They were heavy of stone, damp after the rain, but free of moss and mildew. I suspect the good ventilation was handy in that respect.
To my right, there was another full-height wall, in the middle of which was a doorway serviced by a wooden staircase that looked to be in a useable enough condition. I climbed it carefully and tried the door that I knew would lead into the south section of the building, and it yielded easily to my first tug at its brass handle. Before exploring there, I turned and looked back at the hall, and I could clearly envisage the open fireplace and grand library shelving that I’d adorn the walls with, keeping the place as one, spectacular, open space. I didn't then consider the cost of heating such a space, my mind was racing too much to consider such practicalities.

The rear section was more normal in its proportions, in that it was divided into small rooms, the walls of which were crumbling plaster and peeling, faded wallpaper. They had low, whitewashed ceilings. There was an open, wooden staircase that led to the upper floor comprised of similar rooms, all of which must have been sleeping quarters, with the exception of one, which had obviously been a bathroom and toilet, although I could find no trace of plumbing or old electrical remnants. The windows had been blanked off with sheets of plywood to keep out some of the weather.
However, none of those features bothered me in the slightest. Everything would need ripping out. I was just grateful that there was not already a huge amount of debris to remove. Moreover, some of these rooms could be quickly turned into temporary accommodations while I restored the rest of the house.

I’d saved the best bit until last.

Having climbed back down into the main hall, I strode eagerly across its barren surface to the front of the building, the side that faced the ocean, and regarded the stone stairway that led up to the only intact door in the entire house. The treads of the stairway were flat stones embedded into the main wall, and instinctively, I knew that they would allow me access out onto the top of the original tower and lighthouse portion of the building. They seemed solid enough, but they were narrow and the handrails were missing which made the ascent all the more interesting. When I arrived at the large, wooden, rust encrusted metal framed door, I was fearful that I might not be able to open it. I assumed it must open outwards because there was no apparent landing at the top of the stairway. The handle was missing, but when I looked up at the top of the frame, I saw that the door was held shut by a piece of old, fuzzy rope which succumbed easily to my trusty penknife.
I pushed, and the door grudgingly and noisily succumbed to my will. Only to reveal a short, rock-hewn tunnel that ended with another door. Undeterred, I looked, hoping to find a similarly easy way of opening it, but at first glance, this door looked a much tougher cookie to crack.

‘Bugger,’ I cursed, and with the side of my hand, I struck it firmly in my frustration.

In response, it grated alarmingly and fell open before me, crashing dramatically upon the surface of the top of the tower.

Before me, the ocean danced and the sunlight beamed, the breeze slapped me firmly in the face, and I had a moment of wonderous vertigo. Carefully, I stepped around the fallen door and out onto the top of Raven Broch. The tower was nearly circular except where it abutted the hall. It was capped with a cracked, concrete lid, at the centre of which was a stumpy, twisted, rusted, metal housing that I assumed must have been the support for the lights that once made it a lighthouse. There were no safety rails, but there was a short, parapet wall, maybe two-foot high, that surrounded the tower’s circumference. It was a bit like a helicopter pad I’d once landed on whilst investigating a suspicious death on an oil rig in the North Sea.
I placed a foot on the parapet and looked down at the now heaving ocean. I turned to my left and looked down at the harbour. I looked to my right and could see the hazy shoreline of the mainland. And then, having removed my rucksack, I sat down next to the wooden door with my back firmly against the rugged walls of the main hall, and I extracted the small bottle I’d carried to that place.

It was a half-bottle of Dom Pérignon. It had been left to me by my dear old mum, along with a note which she’d written while she still had a mind of her own.
It said, Save this for the moment you sit upon the Raven Broch. I hope that this finds you at a time when you might need it the most.

At that precise time, I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. It was only later, in the London office of the solicitor who handled my mum’s thin affairs that I’d learnt of Raven Broch.

I untwisted the bottle’s cage and luckily for me, I wasn’t looking down at it because, due to all my wading and climbing, the damned cork shot out of the bottle like it was a cannon performing a ten-gun salute and disappeared out of sight over the edge of the tower. Losing only some froth, I manged to half-fill the glass that I’d brought for the occasion.

‘Thanks Mum,’ I toasted her, raising the glass to the open sky. But before I could take a sip, I looked about me at the splendour of that place.

And the lump in my chest became a constriction in my throat.
And the twist in my nose became a droplet that I tried to push away, but it remained wet on the back of my hand.
And the tear in the corner of my eye, that I could no longer pretend was due to the wind, ran down my face.
And for the first time in my adult life, I cried.

I cried for my dear, sad old mum.
I cried for every wretched, twisted soul with whom I’d been forced to interact. Without pity. Without anger. Without even empathy.
And I cried for myself for having to have endured all that ugliness. The malfeasance. The dirt that I could not wash from my hair, and the filth that I could not scrape from beneath my own fingernails.
And then I laughed, and I took a sip of the wine that very nearly made me sneeze. For now, I was the keeper of Raven Broch, and I would never need to cry for those things again.

Before it got dark, I returned to the inn. And what I found there would change everything.