C100 Batch 9
Five vignettes of the holiday in Scotland in June 2001, all in Rory's point of view, and each accompanied by a photograph. For the complete prompt table and chronological list, go here.
81 Mountain
Charlie was huffing and puffing before they were halfway up.
"Come on, slowcoach!" chided Rory, twenty metres ahead. He stopped and waited for his lover to catch up to him.
"It's all right for some," muttered Charlie. "I've been on tour for the last six months."
"Which is exactly why you need to walk more."
"Bastard."
"Only by choice."
"Give me a hand, will you?"
Rory reached back and pulled Charlie in close. He loved seeing Charlie breathless and panting, but climbing a hill wasn't quite his preferred method of achieving it. Still, they were together and free from any supervision or interference, and he was revelling in the freedom.
"So what's this mountain called, again?" asked Charlie, when he'd got his breath back.
"It's a hill, not a mountain."
"Feels like a bloody mountain to me."
Rory laughed, and started walking briskly up the hill again. When he had a good head start he turned and said, "If you beat me to the top I'll let you fuck me tonight."
He wasn't all that surprised when Charlie overtook him.
31 Sunrise
The lighthouse was a brilliant white, reflecting so much of the sunshine that it almost hurt Rory's eyes to look at it. He wondered what it would have been like to have lived in one, in the days before radar and GPS, when this light would have been the only thing that stopped ships from being broken up on the rocks. It was a heavy responsibility, and the keepers had been a tough and hardy people.
At least this one, at the eastern tip of the Black Isle, wasn't particularly isolated. The town was only a couple of miles down the road, and the land was high enough that there was no danger of it being cut off. Still, those long, almost endless nights in winter would have taken their toll. How the keepers must have prayed for sunrise, when they could douse the light and retire to their beds for the few short hours of daylight. How they must have struggled to climb the stairs to the light room, day after day, night after night, with joints aching from the cold and the damp, never quite warm enough, never quite safe enough.
He shook his head and smiled ruefully at himself. Either Charlie's fancies or the fey spirit of his grandmother was affecting him. It must be the Scottish air, he decided. He'd been away from his homeland for far too long, and his mind was playing tricks on him. It wouldn't work, though, he was far too practical a man to pay them any heed.
He smiled again, took another photograph, and turned away, back towards the car.
78 Sea
Rory stood on the promontory at Dunnet Head and looked north. The sea was a deep blue-grey, like Charlie's eyes, and he imagined being able to immerse himself in its depths, being enfolded and consumed by the ocean. He took a deep breath, tasting the salt in the air, revelling in the tang of the wind as it blew through his shirt.
"Did you know," he said, suddenly, "that if I walked in a straight line due north from here, the next bit of land I'd meet is Siberia?"
"What about that?" asked Charlie, pointing to the land they could only just make out through the haze.
"That's Hoy, and it's north-east. Due north's over there," he pointed to the left of the lighthouse, west of Hoy. "If I walked in that direction I'd meet Siberia."
"If you walked from here you'd be very, very wet," Charlie countered, but he smiled all the same. "Is that really true?"
"Yes. No land between Scotland and Russia if you go over the North Pole. Just the Arctic Ocean."
"How far is it?"
"Three and a half thousand miles."
"That's a lot of walking."
"It's a lot of ocean."
"You'd need a bloody big SCUBA tank."
"And a map of the seabed."
"And a compass."
Rory smiled. "Not over the North Pole, lad. You'd be going round in circles forever."
Charlie giggled. "I'd forgotten that bit."
"I don't think there is a map of the arctic floor."
"Just as well you decided not to go then."
"Aye, it is." Rory agreed, but kept his eyes fixed on the sea.
80 Island
Rory heard Charlie gasp as they rounded a corner and saw Loch Eriboll stretching out before them. It seemed to glow blue in the bright morning sunshine, while the grass was a brilliant emerald green. Rory couldn't be sure if it was just the light, or perhaps the contrast with the murky fog that covered the north coast that morning, but it was definitely stunning. Worth a photograph anyway, he thought, pulling over to the verge. The car hadn't even come to a halt before Charlie was scrambling out with his camera, capturing the views in all directions.
Rory leaned against the car and closed his eyes for a few seconds. It was quiet enough for him to hear the faint buzzing of bees around the wildflowers, the distant twitter of birds in the trees, the rustling of leaves and grass as the summer breeze washed over them.
He opened his eyes and looked down to the water. There were lambs running around on the hillside, bleating happily, while their mothers grazed in stoic silence, oblivious to any passing traffic. Just off the shore there was a tiny island, connected by a short causeway, and Rory wondered if anyone lived there. For his part, he'd rather live up here, on the hill, with a view that made his spirit soar.
He felt the breeze on his face again, fresh and almost warm, and he took a few deep breaths. Charlie was right, he thought, casting a fond glance at his lover, the air really was different here.
96 Fog
It was at Durness that Charlie, unexpectedly, put his foot down. "We've looked at every bloody lighthouse in Scotland," he complained. "They're all the same!"
"No, they're not. They're completely different. And this one has puffins."
Charlie huffed. "Rory, love. It's cold. It's foggy. It's bloody miserable. Any self-respecting puffin is going to be tucked up in its nest or lair or whatever it hides in when it's cold, not out beside the lighthouse parading for the tourists. We only have a few days left and I don't want to spend a whole day getting to a place you can't even photograph. I'm not going."
"But..."
"You can go if you want to. I'm going to find the nearest pub and get absolutely sloshed." He took a few steps back towards the main street.
Rory laughed.
Charlie rounded on him. "What's so funny?"
"Extended trading hours haven't exactly made their way here yet. It won't open until lunchtime."
"Fuck."
Rory sighed, and gave in. "All right. We'll head south again."
"Are you sure?"
"Aye. I don't think this fog's going to clear in a hurry anyway."
Charlie beamed at him and moved forward as if to hug him. Rory took a step back, and saw Charlie's face harden. He sighed. He knew Charlie was going to have a go at him as soon as they were back in the car, but there was no way he was going to let himself be hugged in public. Not here. Not in the north of Scotland.
Fuck. Why couldn't life be simple, the way he wanted it? Why couldn't Charlie just accept that he had to behave in public?
He strode back to the car, mentally picturing the road south, hoping that they could find somewhere sunny and warm to stop. Maybe he could buy Charlie an ice-cream to cheer him up.
More vignettes next week (TTT will resume on 13th September).
81 Mountain
Charlie was huffing and puffing before they were halfway up.
"Come on, slowcoach!" chided Rory, twenty metres ahead. He stopped and waited for his lover to catch up to him.
"It's all right for some," muttered Charlie. "I've been on tour for the last six months."
"Which is exactly why you need to walk more."
"Bastard."
"Only by choice."
"Give me a hand, will you?"
Rory reached back and pulled Charlie in close. He loved seeing Charlie breathless and panting, but climbing a hill wasn't quite his preferred method of achieving it. Still, they were together and free from any supervision or interference, and he was revelling in the freedom.
"So what's this mountain called, again?" asked Charlie, when he'd got his breath back.
"It's a hill, not a mountain."
"Feels like a bloody mountain to me."
Rory laughed, and started walking briskly up the hill again. When he had a good head start he turned and said, "If you beat me to the top I'll let you fuck me tonight."
He wasn't all that surprised when Charlie overtook him.
31 Sunrise
The lighthouse was a brilliant white, reflecting so much of the sunshine that it almost hurt Rory's eyes to look at it. He wondered what it would have been like to have lived in one, in the days before radar and GPS, when this light would have been the only thing that stopped ships from being broken up on the rocks. It was a heavy responsibility, and the keepers had been a tough and hardy people.
At least this one, at the eastern tip of the Black Isle, wasn't particularly isolated. The town was only a couple of miles down the road, and the land was high enough that there was no danger of it being cut off. Still, those long, almost endless nights in winter would have taken their toll. How the keepers must have prayed for sunrise, when they could douse the light and retire to their beds for the few short hours of daylight. How they must have struggled to climb the stairs to the light room, day after day, night after night, with joints aching from the cold and the damp, never quite warm enough, never quite safe enough.
He shook his head and smiled ruefully at himself. Either Charlie's fancies or the fey spirit of his grandmother was affecting him. It must be the Scottish air, he decided. He'd been away from his homeland for far too long, and his mind was playing tricks on him. It wouldn't work, though, he was far too practical a man to pay them any heed.
He smiled again, took another photograph, and turned away, back towards the car.
78 Sea
Rory stood on the promontory at Dunnet Head and looked north. The sea was a deep blue-grey, like Charlie's eyes, and he imagined being able to immerse himself in its depths, being enfolded and consumed by the ocean. He took a deep breath, tasting the salt in the air, revelling in the tang of the wind as it blew through his shirt.
"Did you know," he said, suddenly, "that if I walked in a straight line due north from here, the next bit of land I'd meet is Siberia?"
"What about that?" asked Charlie, pointing to the land they could only just make out through the haze.
"That's Hoy, and it's north-east. Due north's over there," he pointed to the left of the lighthouse, west of Hoy. "If I walked in that direction I'd meet Siberia."
"If you walked from here you'd be very, very wet," Charlie countered, but he smiled all the same. "Is that really true?"
"Yes. No land between Scotland and Russia if you go over the North Pole. Just the Arctic Ocean."
"How far is it?"
"Three and a half thousand miles."
"That's a lot of walking."
"It's a lot of ocean."
"You'd need a bloody big SCUBA tank."
"And a map of the seabed."
"And a compass."
Rory smiled. "Not over the North Pole, lad. You'd be going round in circles forever."
Charlie giggled. "I'd forgotten that bit."
"I don't think there is a map of the arctic floor."
"Just as well you decided not to go then."
"Aye, it is." Rory agreed, but kept his eyes fixed on the sea.
80 Island
Rory heard Charlie gasp as they rounded a corner and saw Loch Eriboll stretching out before them. It seemed to glow blue in the bright morning sunshine, while the grass was a brilliant emerald green. Rory couldn't be sure if it was just the light, or perhaps the contrast with the murky fog that covered the north coast that morning, but it was definitely stunning. Worth a photograph anyway, he thought, pulling over to the verge. The car hadn't even come to a halt before Charlie was scrambling out with his camera, capturing the views in all directions.
Rory leaned against the car and closed his eyes for a few seconds. It was quiet enough for him to hear the faint buzzing of bees around the wildflowers, the distant twitter of birds in the trees, the rustling of leaves and grass as the summer breeze washed over them.
He opened his eyes and looked down to the water. There were lambs running around on the hillside, bleating happily, while their mothers grazed in stoic silence, oblivious to any passing traffic. Just off the shore there was a tiny island, connected by a short causeway, and Rory wondered if anyone lived there. For his part, he'd rather live up here, on the hill, with a view that made his spirit soar.
He felt the breeze on his face again, fresh and almost warm, and he took a few deep breaths. Charlie was right, he thought, casting a fond glance at his lover, the air really was different here.
96 Fog
It was at Durness that Charlie, unexpectedly, put his foot down. "We've looked at every bloody lighthouse in Scotland," he complained. "They're all the same!"
"No, they're not. They're completely different. And this one has puffins."
Charlie huffed. "Rory, love. It's cold. It's foggy. It's bloody miserable. Any self-respecting puffin is going to be tucked up in its nest or lair or whatever it hides in when it's cold, not out beside the lighthouse parading for the tourists. We only have a few days left and I don't want to spend a whole day getting to a place you can't even photograph. I'm not going."
"But..."
"You can go if you want to. I'm going to find the nearest pub and get absolutely sloshed." He took a few steps back towards the main street.
Rory laughed.
Charlie rounded on him. "What's so funny?"
"Extended trading hours haven't exactly made their way here yet. It won't open until lunchtime."
"Fuck."
Rory sighed, and gave in. "All right. We'll head south again."
"Are you sure?"
"Aye. I don't think this fog's going to clear in a hurry anyway."
Charlie beamed at him and moved forward as if to hug him. Rory took a step back, and saw Charlie's face harden. He sighed. He knew Charlie was going to have a go at him as soon as they were back in the car, but there was no way he was going to let himself be hugged in public. Not here. Not in the north of Scotland.
Fuck. Why couldn't life be simple, the way he wanted it? Why couldn't Charlie just accept that he had to behave in public?
He strode back to the car, mentally picturing the road south, hoping that they could find somewhere sunny and warm to stop. Maybe he could buy Charlie an ice-cream to cheer him up.
More vignettes next week (TTT will resume on 13th September).