The Last Highland Bus – Part 1: The Snow Comes Early

The bus had been running late since Inverness, which Ellie had decided was a sign. By the time it stopped in the car park at Fort William, the sky was the colour of wet slate and the first flakes were falling in slow, heavy spirals.

"Last bus up the glen," the driver said, not unkindly. "If you're going, you'd best be quick."

Ellie was going. She had a booking at a walking hostel in Glen Coe and an itinerary she had printed out three times, complete with coloured tabs.

The bus crawled out of the town. The heater rattled. The windows fogged. Halfway up the glen, the engine coughed, shuddered and died, and the whole vehicle lurched to a halt on the empty road.

"Ach, not now," the driver muttered, and got out to look at the engine.

Ellie stared out of the window at the snow piling on the verge. There was no signal on her phone. The nearest village was miles behind them.

"Bothy's about a mile up the track," said a deep voice from the seat across the aisle. "Stone hut. There's a stove and wood, if you're quick."

She turned. A man was sitting by the window in a dark waxed jacket, a worn rucksack at his feet and a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. He was tall and lean, with dark hair cut short and grey eyes that looked as if they had seen weather before.

"Are you sure?" Ellie asked.

"I've walked this route for twenty years," he said. "I'm Ruairi. I'm going to the bothy whether the bus comes or not. You can come along or sit in a cold bus with a driver who's going to be swearing at a radiator all night."

Ellie grabbed her pack.

The track was white and silent, the trees black against the sky. They walked in single file, Ruairi in front, breaking a path through the drifts. Ellie slipped twice, and both times his hand came back for her without a word, steady and warm through her glove.

The bothy was a single-room stone hut with a slate roof and a door that stuck. Inside it smelled of old wood smoke and damp wool. There was a small iron stove, a stack of logs and a wooden bench along one wall.

"Right," said Ruairi, pulling off his gloves. "Stove first. Then tea. Then we talk about how you're going to live with me until the snow clears."

"That's a bold opening line," said Ellie.

"It's a practical one," said Ruairi, and struck a match.

The stove caught slowly. Within half an hour the room was warm and smelled of pine. They sat on the bench with mugs of strong black tea, their damp boots drying by the fire.

"What brings you up here?" he asked.

"Running away from a job I hate," said Ellie. "And a flat that's too quiet. And a boyfriend who thought I'd be happy with a spreadsheet."

"And are you happy?"

"I'm freezing," said Ellie, and he laughed, a low, rough sound that warmed her more than the stove.

They talked for hours. About the glen and the golden eagles that nested on the crags above. About his job as a mountain guide and her job as an accountant who wanted to write children's books. About the loneliness of winter, and the kindness of strangers on buses.

Outside, the wind rose and fell, and the snow hissed against the small square window.

"Ellie," Ruairi said eventually, his voice quieter now. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"Are you frightened of being stuck here with me?"

She thought about it, honestly. "No," she said. "Should I be?"

"Not of me," said Ruairi. "But you should know I like you already. It's a bit quick, and I'm not sure if I should say it."

Ellie's pulse picked up. "Say it."

"I like you," said Ruairi simply. "And if you want to stop, I'll stop, and make you another cup of tea."

"Then yes," said Ellie. "I like you too. And the tea is very good."

He smiled slowly, and reached across the bench, and she met him halfway.