By the time we reached Balloch the snow was thick on the landscape around us, and unfortunately on the roads too. There was no sign of the car that was to take us to the hotel, even though I’d texted our arrival time a while ago. We’d had no signal for a while, but as it came back I found I had a text on my phone from a local number. The hotel. They wanted me to call. Damn. As Gabi waited tensely beside me, I called them.
“We’re having trouble getting the car to you,” the hotel manager explained, her Scottish accent so pretty you could forgive her almost anything. “But don’t fash yourself. I’m sending you an alternative. He’ll be a while yet, so take yourselves across the bridge to the Balloch House pub there and keep warm. He’ll look for you in there.”
“Have any of our guest arrived?”
