Charlie Smithers: Adventures in Arran (The Charlie Smithers Collection Book 4) by C W Lovatt

Author:C W Lovatt [Lovatt, C W]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Wild Wolf Publishing
Published: 2021-12-16T16:00:00+00:00

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I’ve often thought that, if you’re not being pursued by bloodthirsty thugs, and the fate of the nation doesn’t happen to be depending on you at the moment, Arran would be a capital spot to visit for pleasure, for it really is quite lovely.

For one thing, in spite of how far north it lies, the mercury seldom drops below freezing, even in January. That is to say at the lower altitudes, of course, for during the winter, it wasn’t extraordinary for the tops of the fells to be covered in snow. But the lower hills are lush and green, populated with sheep, reminding me somewhat of the dales back in Yorkshire. Truly lovely, indeed.

The road gradually rose the further we went inland. We were traveling through fairly rugged country, with the way liberally crossed with shallow burns. As we moved along, Maeve would point out various mountains in the distance, and laughed at Neville’s and my poor attempts to pronounce their wild-sounding names – Ard Bheinn, A’Chruach, and Beinn Bhreac to give you an idea. They were beautiful to look at, although I didn’t think they were terribly impressive in size, until rounding what I had assumed was the base of a hill. Suddenly the world fell away on one side of the road, plunging into a vast glen, where I could just make out a drover’s cottage, far below, and the silver thread of a burn meandering through the middle. At that distance, the sheep themselves were mere specks. That was when it struck home how high we had come, and how much higher were the mountains than I had first imagined. We were no strangers to fells in Yorkshire – I’d climbed a good many of them myself – but for sheer beauty of rugged terrain, I must tip my hat to Arran.

That is not to say that the interior was uninhabited, for apart from travellers we met on the road, we passed through villages at regular intervals, in settings so picturesque you’d think you’d been transported into a faery tale. The people were cheerful and friendly, in the way that country folk often tend to be. For my part, I would rather they hadn’t shown quite so much interest, as wagging tongues might cause no end of trouble. However, we had rehearsed our story about being travelling photographers until we could say it in our sleep, and found that it went down rather well. In fact, perhaps it went down too well, for in the village of Shiskine, nothing else would do but that we unload the camera to take a photograph of what I swear must have been the entire population. It was another rare success, too; for once the parabolic nature of our instrument worked to our advantage, being singularly well suited to encompass so many souls in a single exposure.

I can’t take any of the credit, however. As was the case with MacGlarrity, back in Lochranza, it had been a fortunate accident, with little thought for light, or anything else.

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