Walking into the settlement feels like stepping back in time, with cobblestone streets underfoot and quaint thatched-roof cottages everywhere we look. It’s like being inside a postcard from Scotland’s past.
As we wander through the village, what would be Cal’s brother’s pub, without its usual cheeky sign, comes into sight. Instead of The Tipsy Trow, MacDowells’ Inn and Tavern is proudly displayed above the door like a family crest, sending waves of surprise crashing over Cal.
His eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. “Well, tickle me tartan,” he murmurs, his words barely louder than the hushed wind.
“I might end up having a pint with my great-great-grandpappy!”
“Why not introduce yourself as a long-lost cousin?” I suggest, trying to suppress the giggles bubbling up within me. “We wouldn’t want to cause some sort of time-travel anomaly or something.”
“Smart move,” he says with a small nod. “Butnavigating clan politics without knowing their secret highland handshakes could be like dancing on thin ice. We need to tread lightly.”
“Absolutely. Let’s keep our true identities under wraps for now and try to blend in.” The idea of donning period clothing sends a thrill of excitement coursing through me, rivaling even our unplanned jump through time.
We meander through the village, drinking in its quaint charm. It’s serene—no cars zipping by or electric wires slicing across the sky. Just cobblestone paths beneath our feet and an uncanny silence echoing off deserted stone cottages. The only sounds punctuating this stillness are chirping birds and distant rhythmic clanging from a blacksmith’s forge.
“There,” Cal points out a tiny shop with MacTavish’s Clothing and Cobblery etched onto a wooden sign swinging above its entrance.
“Cobblery?” I quirk an eyebrow.
“It’s an old term for shoemaker. See?” His grin widens. “There’s more to this Highlander than just rugged good looks.”
I roll my eyes but can’t resist cracking a smirk.
“Let’s hope they carry our sizes. And take plastic.” Cal adds with a playful wink.
The bellabove the door chimes as we shuffle into the shop, a warm welcome from an otherwise antiquated setting. An older man’s eyes lift from his workbench, crinkled lines of wisdom decorating his weathered face like a road map of life.
“Good day to ye,” he greets us in English, his voice thick with a charming Scottish brogue. “I’m William MacTavish. What can I do fer a bonny lass and a braw lad such as yerselves?”
I shoot Cal a wide-eyed look, my heart pounding like I’ve just run a marathon. He steps forward, clearing his throat in an attempt at nonchalance.
“We, uh, we’re travelers… in need of some clothing. And shoes. We’ve had a bit of a... mishap.”
A twinkle ignites in the man’s eyes. He clearly finds our predicament amusing. “Aye, I can see that. Ye’ve been through the wringer.”
“But I’ve seen yer… kind… before,” he smiles warmly. “Pleased to help ye blend in using clothes traded by patrons over the years.”
“That would be grand, thank you,” Cal says sincerely.
The cobbler asks about our clan affiliation, and Cal hesitates before answering. Every muscle in his body tenses up as if preparing for battle.
“I’m a MacDowell… if that’s acceptable here?” His gaze locks onto the cobbler’s as if telepathically attempting to communicate our precarious situation.
To our relief, the man takes it all in stride and even winks knowingly at us while scurrying around his cluttered shop to gather clothes for us.
I lean into Cal and whisper so low only he can hear me, my voice wavering: “Do you think he knows? That we’re not locals?”
Cal shrugs. “I’m not sure. Dinnae worry. If he does suspect somethings off-kilter, he seems quite unfazed.”
The cobbler returns shortly after with a breathtaking cream-colored gown. I duck into the back room to change into it. It hugs my waist and flows down to my ankles like a silk waterfall. But I know better than to let aesthetics win over practicality in this strange era we’re stuck in.
“It’s lovely, but do you have women’s breeches?” I ask him as he’s gathering more clothes in the front room.
“Breeches? For a lady? You’ll stand out like a thistle among roses!” He seems visibly taken aback by my request.
“Nevertheless, it’s what I prefer,” I insist, suddenly realizing I need to justify why. “I’m from Glasgow. We’re very fashion-forward.”
He shakes his head, a click of disapproval escaping from his tongue, but he humors me anyway, handing over a white blouse, a pair of brown breeches and a sturdy leather belt.
