I burst out laughing. “Believe me, they’ve given it their best shot! But it’s always been a misguided chase… not quite aligning with what I’m looking for.”
Our eyes meet, and something wordless butmeaningful passes between us, a mutual recognition of the pitfalls we’ve encountered dating in the modern world.
The village fairhas picked up pace, with a steady hum of activity and laughter surrounding us. More people join the dancing, their movements in sync with the lively music that floats through the air. The savory scent of food mingles with the sweet aroma of pastries.
We’re in the middle of an excited crowd, all eyes turned towards the main event: The Annual Highlander Challenge. Fiona explained it’s a mishmash of brawn, gastronomic endurance, and an overly theatrical swordplay display. A burly man with a beard who could give Santa Claus a run for his money takes center stage.
“Welcome one and all!” he booms out. “You’re about to witness feats of Highland prowess that’ll make Moray Firth look like a shallow pond!”
Cal edges closer to me, his voice barely above a whisper as he grins.
“I think ‘prowess’ is being generous.”
The first event on the roster is a pie-eating contest. Contestants take their places at an elongated table, their faces reflecting a combination of determinationand potential pastry-induced regret. The rules are simple: eat till you can’t eat no more without keeling over from pie overdose.
With the shout “Begin!” from our heavily bearded announcer, they dive into their task. It’s an explosion of flying crumbs, flailing limbs, and pastry shrapnel.
“Never thought I’d see such gusto for heartburn.” Cal shakes his head and chuckles.
Next up is the sword-fighting demonstration. More like the sword-flinging circus act. A wiry man with more swagger than sense steps forward, brandishing a massive sword that looks better suited for lumber-jacking than combat. His opponent—another hulk with an equally comical weapon—matches him in dramatic posturing.
“The goal here,” announces Beardy McBeardface with grandeur, “is not harm but showmanship!”
What follows can only be described as a Monty Python sketch. The pair engage in an overblown dance of sidesteps and swoops, their swords clashing with a resounding, more theatrical than threatening echo.
“Parry my blows, or ye shall perish a painful death!” the wiry one shouts.
An ancestor of Macbeth, obviously.
It’s less about actual skill and more about who can fake the most ludicrous injury. When McBeardface takes a particularly melodramatic tumble, the crowderupts into applause, clearly valuing flair over actual fighting prowess.
I sidle up to Cal, grinning ear to ear. “I feel like I’ve stumbled into a medieval comedy club.”
“If this is how they fight wars here, I think we’re pretty safe,” he answers with a wink.
Chapter Twenty-Two
When we finally arrive atthe cobbler’s booth, William MacTavish greets us with a toothless smile.
“Good morning to ye! Will ye be flaunting these fine boots I crafted then?” he asks, scrutinizing our footwear again with an artisan’s keen eye.
“That was the deal,” Cal confirms, giving him a friendly pat.
“Let’s hope they’re more durable than my last relationship,” I whisper, earning an amused snort from Cal.
The morning is spent modeling boots—from rugged work shoes to delicate slippers fit for Highland royalty. As we strut around like peacocks—me in breeches and Cal in his kilt—we draw curious glances from villagers. It feels oddly familiar—like being a living mannequinafter years in retail.
“Look at ye, the bonnie pair,” Fiona teases, her laughter blending with the lively fair sounds. “Ye could charm the silver right off a nobleman.”
“Or at least charm some sense into one,” I say, triggering a chorus of chuckles from bystanders.
As the day unfolds, I’m slowly sinking into the rhythm of this bygone era. Cal’s wit is my anchor, keeping me grounded in our current reality—however twisted it may be—as we navigate this alien landscape. There are moments when our laughter merges, forming a symphony that feels as timeless as the world around us.
“Check him out,” I say, pointing at a man limping in mismatched boots, one sole flapping like a gossiping older woman. “Those shoes could tell quite a story.”
“Probably an epic tale of survival,” Cal chimes in with a grin. “Or maybe a tragicomedy.”
“Your turn.” I nudge him and gesture toward a woman in sturdy leather boots. “What’s her deal?”
