CHAPTER 17 THE SHOPKEEPER
The drive to Plockton wound through Scotland's most breathtaking landscapes. I gripped the steering wheel as I navigated hairpin turns, my eyes constantly pulled from the road to the glassy lochs stretching below us. Around every curve waited another perfect image – mountains doubled in still waters, ancient stone bridges spanning rushing burns, and shaggy Highland cattle regarding us with magnificent indifference. In the passenger seat, Brian kept switching between looking amazed and green with motion sickness.
"Plockton has palm trees, you know," he said, staring at his phone as we went through another sharp turn. "The Gulf Stream makes a strange microclimate here. You wouldn't expect that in the Highlands."
"Fascinating," I muttered as I carefully passed a t
