I Write
STORM OF LOVE
CHAPTER ONE
GLACK OF NEWTYLE, SCOTLAND, SPRING 1827
It was raining that morning as I walked southwards towards the Glack of Newtyle, a narrow pass through the Sidlaw Hills in Eastern Scotland. I hunched my shoulders, slithered on the muddy track and wished for better weather. As well wish for the moon, of course, in a Scottish spring, but I was so concerned with passing the road and the miles to Dundee that I nearly failed to notice the old man who walked in front, gathering sticks and adding them to the bundle on his back.
‘Halloa,’ I called to him. ‘What’s to do?’
The poor old fellow nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of my voice. After he recovered his composure, he turned to face me. ‘Hello, young lady,’ his voice was as cracked and ancient as his face, while he peered at me through narrow eyes.
‘That’s a heavy load you have,’ I said, thankful for the company for the Glack can be a lonely place. ‘Are you going far?’
‘As far as I have to,’ the man answered cryptically. ‘You’re welcome to share my load, young lady.’
I balanced half the man’s bundle on my shoulder, and we walked side by side for the next mile, with him panting and peching with the weight and me trying to sweeten the journey with a conversation.
‘It’s a coarse day,’ I said at last as the old man responded to my sallies with nothing but grunts.
‘It’s worse than it might be and better than you know,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll take my sticks now.’
CHAPTER ONE
GLACK OF NEWTYLE, SCOTLAND, SPRING 1827
It was raining that morning as I walked southwards towards the Glack of Newtyle, a narrow pass through the Sidlaw Hills in Eastern Scotland. I hunched my shoulders, slithered on the muddy track and wished for better weather. As well wish for the moon, of course, in a Scottish spring, but I was so concerned with passing the road and the miles to Dundee that I nearly failed to notice the old man who walked in front, gathering sticks and adding them to the bundle on his back.
‘Halloa,’ I called to him. ‘What’s to do?’
The poor old fellow nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of my voice. After he recovered his composure, he turned to face me. ‘Hello, young lady,’ his voice was as cracked and ancient as his face, while he peered at me through narrow eyes.
‘That’s a heavy load you have,’ I said, thankful for the company for the Glack can be a lonely place. ‘Are you going far?’
‘As far as I have to,’ the man answered cryptically. ‘You’re welcome to share my load, young lady.’
I balanced half the man’s bundle on my shoulder, and we walked side by side for the next mile, with him panting and peching with the weight and me trying to sweeten the journey with a conversation.
‘It’s a coarse day,’ I said at last as the old man responded to my sallies with nothing but grunts.
‘It’s worse than it might be and better than you know,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll take my sticks now.’
26-30, F
