The Last Highland Bus – Part 2: Morning Light on the Glen

The morning came up clear and blindingly bright. The snow lay in thick white drifts across the glen, and the mountains stood out against a sky so blue it hurt to look at.

Ellie woke on the bench under two of Ruairi's jumpers and a blanket that smelled of woodsmoke. He was already awake, sitting on the floor by the stove with his back to the wall and a mug between his hands, watching the light come through the small window.

"Morning," he said, quietly.

"You didn't sleep."

"I slept a bit. I kept listening for the rescue team."

"Did you hear them?"

"Not yet," said Ruairi. "But I heard you snoring, so I'm sure they'll find us soon."

"I do not snore."

"You do. Like a small, very determined boat."

She threw a corner of the blanket at him. He caught it, grinning, and tossed it back.

By mid-morning, a snowplough had cleared the road, and the bus had been towed away to be repaired. A young ranger on a quad bike came up the track to check on them, took one look at the stove and the two mugs and said, with a wink, "Well, you two have had a cosy night, then."

Ellie went scarlet. Ruairi just laughed.

"We're walking to Glen Coe," he said. "If you want to come. It's six miles, and the views are worth the blisters."

"I've got blisters already," said Ellie.

"Then we'll go slow."

They walked the glen together, the sun on their faces and the snow creaking beneath their boots. Eagles circled high above the crags, their wings spread wide and still. A burn ran black and silver between the white banks, chuckling over stones.

Ruairi stopped every half mile to point out something she would have missed: a deer's hoofprints in the snow, a rowan tree heavy with red berries, a rock shaped like a sleeping dog.

"You know all of this by heart," Ellie said.

"I've walked it for twenty years," said Ruairi. "And I never once walked it with someone who asked me what I was looking at."

She stopped. The wind moved softly through the pines. Ruairi turned to look at her, his face open and a little uncertain.

"Ruairi," she said. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"What do you want from this? Not the walk. Us."

He was quiet for a moment, looking out at the mountains.

"I want to see you again," he said. "In Glasgow, or Edinburgh, or on the bus home on a bad day. I want to hear what you do with the children's books. And I want you to tell me when I'm being too much."

"You're not too much."

"I'm a bit much," he said, with a crooked smile. "Will you let me try?"

"Yes," said Ellie. "But I'll be the one who makes the tea next time."

He laughed, and then stepped closer, carefully, the way he had done on the bench the night before.

"Can I kiss you, Ellie? Here, in the snow, with an eagle watching?"

"Yes," she said. "And if I want you to stop, I'll say so, and the eagle will have to wait."

He kissed her, slowly, in the bright cold morning, with the mountains all around them and the sun warm on their faces. It tasted of tea and cold air and something she had been longing for without knowing it.

When they parted, Ellie was breathless and smiling.

"Green?" he asked, low.

"Green," she said. "Let's walk on. I want to see the rest of the glen with you."

Above them, the eagle circled once more and then turned away over the ridge, as if it had decided, after all, that it had seen enough.