“See? What’d I tell ye? I’m practically overflowing with genius ideas!” Cal says, flashing me a devilish wink that promises nothing short of trouble.
“Come on now, cowpoke,”Cal eggs me on with his sexy Scottish lilt and dimpled grin. I trail after him, leaving behind the inviting warmth of Rosewood Cottage and stepping into the briny tang of Moray Firth’s salty air.
We stroll through the quaint village, where cozy shop windows tempt me with promises of tasty Scottish cuisine. The briny maritime scent intertwines with fresh bread wafting from a nearby bakery while the morning chill playfully nips at my cheeks. I’m thankful for my snug sweater and beanie.
“Here we are,” Cal declares as we reach his farm on the hilltop. Its ancient stone walls stand tall and proud against the canvas of an immaculate blue sky. A half dozen scruffy, rusty-red highland cows graze lazily in the pasture around us.
“Dinnae worry. I’ll only call over the docile ones. Watch this,” Cal says before placing two fingers in his mouth and letting out a piercing whistle that echoes across the open field. The cows, previously scattered randomly around their pasture, perk up their heads and start ambling towards us at a leisurely pace that screams ‘no rush.’
“That’s Bonnie leading the pack,” he points to a particularly rotund cow, “then comes Thistle, Heather, Morag, Mae...”
I watch in fascination as each cow seems to acknowledge her name with a glance our way before continuing her unhurried journey toward us. “That’s incredible!” I gush. “Teach me?”
With eyes crinkled at the corners in amusement, Cal shows me how to position my fingers for an effective cattle call. Once I produce a sound that doesn’t result in panicked bovine scattering—success!—I decide it’s time to bring a touch of Canada to the Scottish Highlands. Cupping my hands around my mouth, I let loose a loon call, so loud, it reverberates eerily across the landscape.
Cal listens to my loon call for a minute before doubling over with laughter. “Well now,” he manages between fits of chuckles, “that’ll be useful when we’re out on Loch Ness! Might just frighten Nessie herself!”
Perched atop the hill, we survey the sprawling patchwork quilt of green MacDowell fields below us; our shared laughter swept away on the breeze as we take turns practicing our loon calls. Cal’s attempt sounds more like a distressed trumpet than anything else, much to the apparent offense of two highland cows peacefully grazing in the distance. Their heads swivel towards us, and they start lumbering our way at an alarming speed.
Yikes, looks like it’s time for a strategic retreat.
My heart starts doing a frantic cha-cha in my chest as I spin on my heel and sprint down the hill. Cal lopes beside me, grinning like a maniac at the cows charging our way.
“They’ve got it out for me!” I squeal, throwing terrified glances over my shoulder.
“Hardly. We’re faster than them. I swear you’re safe,” he chuckles, but he offers me his hand.
“I think they can smell fear,” I pant out, accepting his hand between laughter and desperate gulps of air.
“Or maybe they just have a nose for cute Canadians,” he quips back, squeezing my hand.
Once we’ve put some distance between us and our bovine stalkers, he turns to me with a smirk. “Ready for something a bit more fun?”
I squint at him suspiciously. “That depends on your idea offun.”
His smirk stretches into a full-on grin. “Milking,” he declares proudly as if that single word solves all the world’s problems.
“Oh joy,” I groan, trailing after him into the barn.
He demonstrates his milking prowess on a cow named Daisy, hands moving with an ease that comes from years of practice. Then he turns to me expectantly. “Your turn.”
“Daisy, don’t make this weird,” I tell her, attempting to mimic Cal’s actions. Instead of a steady stream, I only manage to squirt out a few sad drops, some even missing the bucket thoroughly. The sound of Cal’s laughter is like fuel on my competitive fire.
“Amelia Sutherland doesn’t back down from challenges,” I announce with determination.
“Aye. And she shouldn’t,” he agrees, still chuckling at my expense.
Eventually, after more than a fair share of giggles and spilled milk, I get the hang of it and find a decent rhythm. We’re sitting side by side in the barn, our laughter bouncing off the wood walls, creating anunexpected symphony of shared joy that feels oddly intimate.
He suddenly stops laughing, his eyes touching a depth I hadn’t noticed before.
“Come on,” he says softly. “There’s something else ye need to see.”
Chapter Ten
Cal guidesme out of the barn and down a lush green slope towards the main street that runs through the village. As we turn a corner, we stumble upon an unexpected sight: the skeletal remains of what used to be a medieval church. The once mighty stone structure now stands as proof of time’s unrelenting march forward; its former glory weathered away by centuries.
“Wow!” I gasp in awe, quickening my pace to explore further. The ruins beckon with an ancient charm that’s impossible for me to resist.
