The Orkney Crossing – Part 1: Cancelled

The ferry board said CANCELLED in red letters, and the wind answered with a howl.

Priscilla stood on the pier in the rain, camera bag clutched to her chest. She was thirty-three, a photographer from Toronto, and she had booked every minute of her Scottish trip. None of it included being stranded on an island with nine hundred people and one pub.

"You'll be wanting a room," said a voice at her shoulder.

He was thirty-six, in a waxed coat and wellingtons, with weathered cheeks and a bus driver's cap. "Callum. I drive the island bus. And fix the pub's roof, when it needs it. Which is often." He nodded at the door. "Rooms upstairs. Peat fire in the bar."

The pub was tiny, low-beamed, and gloriously warm. A fire glowed in the grate, smelling of smoke and earth. Locals nursed pints and told long, meandering stories.

Callum brought her a bowl of lamb stew and a whisky. "You'll not leave tomorrow, either. The wind's for three days."

"Three days?"

"It's an island. We do what the weather says."

Her phone had no signal. Her schedule had no meaning. She laughed in disbelief, and found, to her astonishment, that she did not mind.

On the second day, he drove her round the island in the empty bus, stopping wherever she wanted to shoot. The cliffs were black and green, the sea whipped white, standing stones silvered with lichen. She photographed him through the windscreen, cap pushed back, laughing at something she'd said.

"Can I ask you something?" said Callum, at dusk, over the engine's hum.

"Yes."

"Do you always look at places like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you're afraid they'll vanish."

She stared at him. No one had ever said it. "Yes," she said, quietly. "I think I do."

"Green?" she added, abruptly.

"Green," said Callum, mildly confused and plainly delighted. "Very green. Come and warm up."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Peat Fire.