It’s been a bad idea right from the start.
Yet, here we are, seated amidst the grandeur of a Chinese restaurant, its lavishness strikingly out of place against the barren scenery that surrounds us. We’re at the nexus of two vital highways, arteries that weave through the Highlands, threading north to south, west to east. Apart from a filling station and the bus stop, the landscape is bleak, save for a distant village. I can’t remember its name. A decade ago, I would have recognized it instantly.
My fascination with maps has been a constant companion throughout my life. There's something about tracing the veins of roads, the delineation of towns, and the sprawling expanse of wilderness that has always captivated me. For me, maps are more than mere guides; they are storytellers that fold and crease tales of journeys embarked upon, of discoveries made, and of paths not taken. They speak of a world beyond our immediate perception, and invite us to explore. To learn. To understand. It's a passion that once made the world seem smaller, more connected, and infinitely discoverable.
Now, as we wait for the bus, I realise how much has changed. Crianlarich lies to the south. That’s where we departed this morning. Kingshouse Hotel awaits us to the north. It marks the beginning of our trek across the moor.
I watch Ava returning from the buffet, her plate a mix of stir-fried vegetables intermingled with chunks of crispy duck, drenched in a glossy, somewhat indefinable sauce. Her capacity to have another hearty meal so soon baffles me. It's barely past midday, and yet the memory of our full Scottish breakfast, complete with sizzling sausages, thick-cut bacon, eggs cooked just right, alongside tomatoes, mushrooms, and black pudding, still lingers, a mere few hours old in our day. Or perhaps, deep down, I grasp it all too well. It's complicated.
Absentmindedly, I prod at the salad I've assembled on my plate. It's a simple affair, really, nothing that would warrant a visit to a Chinese restaurant - a few leaves of lettuce, some sliced cucumbers, tomatoes, and a smattering of dressing. Nothing about it is remarkable, and I’m pushing it around my plate, lost in thought.
As she settles into the settee opposite me, her smile is faint, almost forced, and carried a politeness that feels distant, as if we were mere acquaintances rather than a married couple. For a fleeting moment, I half expect her to ask if the seat across from me is unoccupied.
We're behind schedule, a fact that hangs in the air between us, unspoken yet undeniably felt. Ava knows, just as she knows the delay rests on her shoulders. Waking up early has never been a great problem for neither of us, a minor detail in our daily routines that never posed a challenge. Ava, in particular, thrived in the early hours. Her tenure at the storage facility demanded nothing less. However, following her loss, our loss, the simple act of rising with the dawn has become an ordeal, a daily battle that seems to grow more daunting with each passing day.
We missed the early bus north, a misstep that costs us more than just time. It was a reminder of how much has changed. So we were left with no choice but to wait for the next one. It left over an hour later, and would only bring us as far as this place. Here, another wait looms before us, an enforced pause that has turned our plan for an early start into a delayed venture, pushing our hike into the afternoon.
The irony of having to settle for an early lunch in this oversized eatery, when we both had envisioned ourselves already deep into our walk, isn't lost on me. I have harbored hopes, perhaps naive, that today would be different, that we would somehow manage to sidestep the shadow hovering over us and reclaim a piece of our old life, if only for a day.
To my surprise, the restaurant buzzes with people. There’s lively chatter and movement within. It prompts me to wonder, almost aloud, from whence this sudden influx of visitors emerged. As my gaze drifts across the room, it dawns upon me – most of them, no, virtually all present, share our status as tourists, drawn out into the embrace of the wild by the lure of a day so resplendent. The sun bathes us in its rare warmth, and the air is still, a rare reprieve from the Highlands' customary breeze.
Outside, a bus with insignias unfamiliar, possibly from France, occupies a space in the lot, its passengers now mingling among us. A travel party. My ears tune in to the sounds, and pick up the distinct melody of French accents. Mostly seniors, their attire casual, chosen with the day's journey in mind – comfortable yet clearly not designed for the rigors of the wilderness that lies beyond the confines of this stopover.
But there are also those who mirror our intent, clad in the unmistakable wear of the prepared hiker. Their gear speaks of readiness and respect for the trails ahead – lightweight, breathable fabrics tailored for movement, boots designed to grip the unpredictable terrain, and backpacks snugly fitted with water, maps, and perhaps a snack or two for the journey. Yet, unlike us, their day does not begin in the less wild space of this restaurant. You can see it on the dusting of earth on their boots, on the slight flush of exertion on their cheeks. They tell of miles already traversed, possibly along the West Highland Way.
"So what's the plan?" Ava's question breaks the silence. I’m glad that her tone is devoid of any rush. I sense sincere eagerness and anticipation for the day ahead. This fills me with gratitude. We still want to make the most of this experience.
"Let me see," I respond, and reach for the map tucked away in our rucksack that rests unassumingly by my side on the bench. I'm conscious that I've already sketched out the basics of our itinerary during our drive here, but the physical act of unfolding the map, of tracing our route with a finger, feels like an important ritual, a way to anchor our plans in the realm of the tangible.
"Look, right now we're here." The map sprawls across the table, and momentarily eclipses my plate. My finger hovers over a nondescript grey dot, a stand-in for our current location amidst a sea of brown hues. The darker browns mark rugged mountain ranges, while the lighter shades hint at expanses of heather. Together, they paint a picture of the wilderness that envelops us. "The map's a bit older. Seems the Chinese have invaded the Highlands just recently," I quip, trying humor to infuse a bit of levity into the moment. Jokes may not be my forte, but in times like these, any effort to lighten the mood feels worth the attempt.
"According to the app, the next bus will arrive in forty minutes, and it takes us to Kingshouse Hotel, which is here." My finger drifts across the map, and settles on another point that marks our next destination. "That would take us another thirty minutes, so we'll be around to start the hike not later than 2pm."
"Isn't that a bit late?" Ava's voice carries a note of worry. Concern seems to have taken up permanent residence in her expression lately. Like a shadow that follows her, lingering behind her eyes, in the furrow of her brow, no matter the words I offer in reassurance or the attempts I make to cheer her up. Yet, I comprehend the depth of her anxiety. At least I try to understand her.
"No, it's not," I counter with a confidence I muster for her sake, even as a whisper within me murmurs, Yes, it is. "The day looks good and there will be plenty of sun. Which means there's still enough light in the late afternoon. We'll be crossing the moor from west to east." I point to the map, trace our intended path with my finger to Rannoch Station, and anchor our conversation in the geography that will guide our hike. "Here's the station. We'll take the train back to Glasgow from there. Four hours of walking, maybe five, because it has rained all day yesterday and the moor might be muddy in places." My words are deliberate, calculated to reassure, to offer a semblance of control and preparation. Yet, beneath the surface, there's an acknowledgment of the unpredictability we're about to face – the mud, the potential for delay, the creeping shadows of the late afternoon. It's a delicate balance, this attempt to keep her worries at bay while acknowledging the validity of her concerns, all the while harboring my own doubts about the wisdom of our late departure.
Her worries seemingly alleviated, Ava's smile widens. "What's for pudding?" she shouts.
"I'm not really a dessert man," I respond with a half-smirk. "But I see you brought fortune cookies." The truth is, the concept of those cookies has always eluded me—a curious blend of prophecy and dessert, maybe an imported tradition veiled in the guise of an ancient custom that, in reality, found its footing far from the lands it supposedly represents. Yet, as she slides one of the cookies across the table, it dances along the contours of our mapped route, a serendipitous journey across paper that mirrors the path we intend to tread later. It's a small, almost insignificant moment, but it's laden with symbolism.
"I'm first," Ava declares, and I notice that her spirits have lifted. She carefully cracks open the cookie to reveal the small slip of paper nestled inside, a harbinger of supposed fortunes. The paper slips free, and she reads aloud, "Adventure awaits you at every turn." Under normal circumstances, that might seem trite, a generic platitude dispensed to any and all seekers of wisdom from a baked good. Yet, in this moment, it feels almost prophetic.
"Now you!" Ava's voice is tinged with excitement. It slices through the air and pulls me back from my reverie. In her eagerness, I catch a fleeting glimpse of the young woman I first met, the youthful exuberance and naive wonder that often left me bemused and, at times, subtly embarrassed. A childlike innocence she brought into the early days of our relationship, a quality I feared was fading by time and circumstance. Yet, here, in the most unexpected of moments and places, prompted by something as trivial as a fortune cookie, that semblance of her former self surfaces once again.
I can't help but shake my head, a smile playing at the corners of my mouth as I feign reluctance, rolling my eyes for effect. The cookie in my hand requires a surprising amount of effort to crack open, as if it's reluctant, too, to reveal its hidden message. Finally, I extract the slip of paper and unfold it. It reads: Confess!
Sorry, what? I murmur to myself, taken aback. The word Confess stares back at me. The exclamation mark stares back at me. A stark, unnerving command that feels absurdly out of place. What kind of fortune is this? Confess what? And to whom? The question hangs in the air.
"What's on it?" Ava's curiosity pierces the brief silence that has settled between us, her eyes alight with the anticipation of sharing another fragment of fortune-cookie wisdom. I'm momentarily frozen, caught in the spotlight of her expectation. I’m still grappling with the unexpected depth of my own reaction to the word Confess! Shall I react with a fabricated, lighter fortune, something benign and forgettable? Yet, the truth, or the lack thereof, slips out before I can dress it in fiction: "Nothing. It's empty."
"Empty? You must be kidding." Her disbelief is immediate, her response swift. Before I can even consider concealing the evidence, the slip of paper is whisked from my grasp. She examines it and flips it over. Her gaze lifts to mine, then returns to the slip. Then, with a shrug and a smile, she says, "A smile is your passport into the hearts of others."
"What?" My confusion is genuine.
"A smile is your passport into the hearts of others. What's so wrong with that, Rich? Hmm... why don't you give me a big smile then?" Ava teases, and her voice is laced with a playful challenge that doesn't quite mask the undercurrent of our earlier tension. I detect the jest in her tone, the gentle ribbing aimed at coaxing me out of my introspective shell.
And so, I acquiesce, not with genuine warmth but with a smile as contrived as the situation demands—a broad, mocking echo of her own. Whether she sees through the facade, recognizes the insincerity mirrored in my expression, I can't tell. Perhaps she does. Yet, she doesn't let on, maintaining her smile as if it were a bridge between us.
For a fleeting series of seconds, our two smiles—fabricated or not—bind us in a shared moment of levity. Despite the underpinning of mock and mimicry, the act of smiling together, of engaging in this silent exchange of feigned cheerfulness, strangely uplifts the mood. And that feels really good.

Then we are on the bus, and I notice that Ava has pocketed a handful of fortune cookies from the huge bowl near the exit of the restaurant. Now, with the journey underway, the landscape unfurls beyond the windows, and it rolls past in a tranquil procession of greens and browns. The Highlands stretch out in their timeless majesty. It almost reminds me of ten years ago. Almost, but not quite.
Back then, we had that VW Bulli, a relic from the 70s painted in all kinds of psychedelic colours that announced our youthful rebelliousness without a word. Its appearance was a bold statement, perhaps too bold. It might have suggested a lifestyle more wild and unrestrained than our reality. Indeed, it invited the scrutiny of law enforcement more than once during our Scottish expedition. Of course, their searches yielded nothing more incriminating than an assortment of the cheapest canned beers we could find, a budget-friendly import from Manchester.
I was the driver, because it was Dan’s car. He argued that providing the vehicle was his contribution, leaving the driving to me—a proposition I found entirely reasonable. Steering that brightly painted symbol of freedom through Scotland's age-old landscapes, we were adventurers in our own right.
Dan had that woman with him, Melinda, or something like that. She was a quiet girl, and there were moments when I pondered whether the trip held for her the same joy it did for us. Ava, in contrast, was unmistakably vivacious, her voice often rising above the rest as we sang along to the radio's offerings. She truly embraced the freedom that the open road bestowed upon us.
No idea what happened to Dan and Melinda. The thread of our connection frayed and eventually snapped in the time following our trip. I don’t even know whether they’re still together. It's a curious thing, the way people drift into our lives, imprinting memories, only to fade into the backdrop as the narrative of our existence marches on. Their absence is noted, a silent note in the course of our journey. Another loss in the grand scheme of life.
Indeed, the Bulli was an anachronism on wheels—loud, glaringly conspicuous, and by today's standards, a rolling affront to environmental consciousness. Yet, for all its faults, it offered a sense of space that felt boundless compared to the cramped quarters of the French bus we observed departing from the parking lot. That bus, packed tightly with its elderly ladies and gents, seemed to shrink even further in contrast to our memories of sprawling leisurely across the van's interior.
And now that bus ahead of us takes a left, winding its way into the mouth of uncanny Glencoe with its grand mountains and valleys steeped in history. Ahead, the white façade of Kingshouse Hotel emerges. It stands like a sentinel in the wild, a place where travelers pause and breathe. A kind of Last Homely House, a Scottish version of Rivendell. Stepping off the bus, a scene of utterly beauty lies before us. The hotel shares its grounds with a campsite. Here, tents of every hue dot the landscape, each a small, personal domain of those who choose to sleep under the stars. The West Highland Way weaves its path through the Mamores mountain range, descending into Kinlochleven further west. Our gaze follows a group of backpackers as they venture into the heart of Glencoe. Soon, their figures will become mere specks that eventually will be swallowed up by the scenery. Our path lies in the opposite direction, where Rannoch Moor stretches out in all its late-summer splendour.

An hour into our hike, the vestiges of human habitation have faded into the rearview of our memories. We tread across a landscape so alien and pristine it might as well belong to another planet. The sun filters through fleecy clouds. But it already dips lower, and I notice the elongated shadows of our own figures, stretching out before us like silent, dark companions on this journey through the wilderness.
A profound silence envelops us, a quiet so deep and encompassing it feels almost tangible. Not an eerie, uncomfortable silence; rather, it's a balm, a serene cloak that wraps around us, and binds us more firmly to the raw beauty of our surroundings. As if the land itself has ushered us into a sacred pact of stillness, a mutual understanding that no words could enhance the perfection of this moment, this place. Our footsteps, the soft rustle of our gear, even our breaths seem to merge with the ambient sounds of the moor—the distant call of a bird, the whisper of the breeze through the heather. The sounds even deepen the silence.
The vast expanse of the moor stretches endlessly to all sides, a wild mosaic of heather and peat, of purple blooms and green tufts. Water is a constant presence here, from the countless lochans that dot the moor like mirrors to the sky, to the meandering streams that carve their way through the peat. Even more so after a day's rain that can turn traversing the moor into a veritable challenge. Each step forward is met with resistance, as if the earth itself wishes to hold us back. More often than not, the ground sucks at our feet with a stubborn insistence. And the wet heather clings like hands to our boots. In one moment, Ava's foot finds a deceptive patch of grass that ensnares her in a sudden, unyielding grip. There's a brief struggle, and I reach out, and my hands clasp hers, and we pull with a concerted effort that finally frees her from the clasp.
There are the distant mountains to the north. Their walls have transformed into shimmering facades. Distances deceive, and morph under the moor's spell. What seems within reach remains elusive, turning navigation into a gamble.
"This place is unlike everything we've visited." Ava's words float through the air like a gentle affirmation of a shared sentiment. And of course she's right. The penultimate day of our tour unwinds before us. Throughout the week, we've traced the contours of Loch Lomond's eastern banks. Each turn revealed a new vista, a surprise hidden by nature's own design. The ascent of Ben Lomond, too, offered its own rewards—a challenge mitigated by favorable weather, culminating in a panoramic view that stretched the limits of the horizon. Yet, here, in the center of this remote moor, we find ourselves confronted with a solitude that feels almost otherworldly. It's a place that seems to exist out of time. For those of us who have grown accustomed to the constant hum of city life, it can be intimidating.
Then, Ava pauses and bends down. Perhaps a loose shoelace, but she rises with a thistle cradled gently in her hand. Holding it aloft, she positions it against the backdrop of the sun, and we watch together as the light filters through its spiky exterior. It stands as a symbol of endurance and strength, of the rugged, untamed spirit of the land itself.
There are tears in Ava's eyes. And I know. I know. The sight of her emotional response stirs something within me, a well of feelings that threatens to overflow. For a fleeting moment, I too struggle to maintain composure. The memory of painted thistles on one wall of the nursery comes unbidden. A reminder of beginnings and innocence, of a time when life seemed simpler and possibilities boundless.
"Let's have a short rest," Ava suggests, and her voice carries a hint of weariness. I nod, and point towards a cluster of rocks perched on a slight rise nearby. We make our way there, and as I shrug off the weight of my rucksack, I feel relieved. Stretching my limbs, the tension begins to ebb away.
Nearby, a ptarmigan catches our attention. Its plumage, a blend of white and brown, offers it near-perfect camouflage against the moorland floor. The bird moves with cautious grace, while it pecks at the ground in search of food. It's a momentary distraction, nothing more, a slice of wild life unfolding with quiet insistence. It reminds me of the constant cycle of survival and beauty that characterizes this seclusion.
Meanwhile, Ava digs in her pockets, looking for something to wipe away her tears. Instead she finds the fortune cookies, and this ignites a flicker of amusement. A gentle curve begins to form at the edges of her lips. She offers one to me, and we both hold them against the light, as if we could fathom their hidden wisdom without having to crack them open. Then I watch as she prepares to open hers. It feels strangely ceremonial here amidst the heather and rock.
Ava carefully breaks it in half. The rustle of the wrapping disturbs the quiet around us. She pulls out the thin strip of paper, and unfolds it to reveal the message. For a moment, she reads silently, her eyes scanning the words. Then, she pauses, lifts her gaze to the sky, as if seeking an answer or perhaps a moment of peace from the air above, then reads the message once more, but this time, her smile fades, and is replaced by a look of worry that seems to settle back onto her face like an unwelcome guest. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she crumples the paper in her hand and stuffs it back into her pocket, hiding it away from sight.
"What was it?" I ask curiously. There's a pause, a stretch of silence between us before she whispers back, "It's nothing. Open yours!"
I go ahead and open mine, though my heart's not really in it. Something about it just feels off. As I pull out the paper, not even needing to straighten it to know it's a brief message, a sense of recognition washes over me. Without reading, I know what it says: Confess! Confess. This brings a surge of annoyance, a mix of emotions that starts to simmer within me. I’m frustrated at the message's simplicity, irritated at the act of opening fortune cookies in a place that commands a deeper, almost sacred respect. I'm upset with Ava for bringing them along. And there's anger, too, at how even the smallest things seem to unsettle her so deeply, more than they should.
Just like Ava, I scrunch up the slip of paper in my hand, and silently tuck it away. No words pass between us as I seek a distraction, something to shift our focus. Then, looking up, I spot a buzzard high above. In the clear sky before a background of blue, I discern its broad wings and keen eyes. "Look!" I urge Ava, and point upwards. The buzzard circles gracefully, and rides the thermal currents with effortless majesty. Its plumage catches the light as it glides. A silent sentinel surveying the land below.
Ava lifts her eyes to follow the bird's path, and for a moment there’s a shared wonder, a brief respite that draws our thoughts away from the trivialities that had momentarily clouded our day.

I estimate that we've covered at least half our journey, perhaps even more. It's hard to gauge progress out here, where familiar landmarks are scarce and the mountains meld into a single, indistinct silhouette. You can almost watch the sun set. Dusk approaches swiftly in the Highlands in September.
Our path now weaves through a network of tiny streams. Each one presents its own obstacle. Some demand a careful fording, others a detour to find a safer passage. This slows our pace considerably. By the time we approach a small river, it becomes clear we won't make the evening train from Rannoch Station. It doesn't really unsettle us. There’s always the likelihood of an overnight stay on the moor. We’ve discussed it a few days ago. The unpredictability of the hike has been acknowledged, accepted.
I’ve packed our rucksack with essentials: a lightweight tent for shelter, compact sleeping bags to ward off the chill, a portable stove for warmth and to boil water, and enough food to sustain us. We wouldn't actually need the tent tonight. Ahead on our path lie two bothies—simple, sturdy shelters meant for travelers like us, that offer the basic comfort of solid walls and a roof overhead. A promise of safety and rest for weary wanderers.
But before we can think of rest, we must cross the river. I scout ahead, and find a spot where it constricts slightly, presenting two large stones that jut out like natural stepping stones. Making the leap first, I then turn back to extend my hand across the divide for Ava. She accepts it, her fingers grip mine, and I pull her toward safety. Her foot catches as she lands, and sends her tumbling into my arms in a moment of unplanned closeness, a fleeting dance of balance and support. For an instant, the warmth of her against me feels right, a throwback to a time when such moments were commonplace, even sought after. But as I release her, a wave of awkwardness washes over us. The space between us suddenly seems charged with an unspoken agreement of distance. The realization hits me with a pang of sadness.
It's as if the simple act of embracing, so natural once, has become a marker of how much has changed between us. It's a mourning for the intimacy we've lost, for the ease between us that seems to have drifted away like the mists on the moor. It's as if, in that fleeting moment of contact, I’ve become acutely aware of a vast emotional gulf that has silently widened, a space filled with unsaid words and unacknowledged changes. Confess, I think. And there's this sudden fear that the chasm might grow wider, that the bridge back to each other might become too difficult to cross.
Up ahead, the first bothy comes into view, a reassuring sign that we've been on the right path all along. Getting lost out here on the moor would be a nightmare we're both keen to avoid. From the outside, it looks simple. Its walls are made of rough-hewn stone that blend seamlessly into the landscape, as if it grew from the earth itself. Covered in slates that have withstood countless storms, the roof slopes gently downwards. It offers enough shelter from the unpredictable Highland weather. It's not a place of luxury or comfort. But then, we're not in search of such things. All we need is a roof over our heads, a place to rest and find respite from the wind and the cold. Because now, a distinct chill permeates the air. The relative warmth of the day retreats with the light, and leaves behind a brisk coldness that wraps around the landscape. The moor is unforgiving, and conditions change as quickly as the passing shadows on the ground. Despite the forecast promising a dry night, the absence of rain does little to ward off the penetrating cold that settles over the place with nightfall. The moisture in the air, a constant presence amidst the grass and heather, seems to amplify the chill, making it cling to the skin with an almost tangible presence. As we approach the bothy, the promise of shelter from this creeping cold becomes all the more precious.
And it offers just that—a shelter, a haven in the wilderness. So, we decide that this is where we'll stay for the night.

Ava wraps herself in an extra pullover for warmth, while I’m busy with setting up the cooker. Side by side, we settle onto a makeshift bench, crafted from a simple plank of wood balanced between two stones. Our eyes are fixed on the simple meal simmering before us—a pot of hearty soup, nothing fancy, just a mix of lentils and vegetables we managed to carry with us, but in the chill that begins to blanket the moor, it promises a warmth that feels almost luxurious. Because having a warm meal as the cold creeps in is a necessity in the wilderness.
We find ourselves alone in the bothy, a rarity during the bustling summer months. But as summer wanes on the moor, the throngs of wanderers dwindle. And the landscape transitions towards solitude. Soon, the wildlife will be left to its own devices, and the only witnesses to the changing seasons are the animals and birds that call this place home.
By the time we finish our meal, darkness has almost fully settled around us. Yet, the moon hangs in the sky, and provides a gentle, natural light. For a short while, we sit together in silence, watching as the few gnarled trees and their skeletal branches become silhouettes against the night sky, slowly consumed by the advancing darkness.
Ava seems especially weary, her eyes fluttering closed intermittently. It's hard to tell if she's simply fighting off sleep or if she’s lost in thought. The day's journey seems to have taken its toll on her.
Stepping into the bothy, drawn towards the bunk bed where our sleeping bags lay unrolled and waiting, we are suddenly enveloped by a sense of starkness, an overwhelming desolation that seems to seep into our very bones. It's not just me feeling this; Ava's face mirrors my shock, her expression one of dismay. We pause at the threshold, hesitating as if an unseen force holds us back, an invisible hand gently pressing against our chests, urging us to reconsider our entry.
The moonlight filters through a window on the left, its pane nothing more than a sheet of plastic stretched across a rudimentary frame. The light throws a shadow that slices the room in a crosslike pattern against the far wall, a stark, almost eerie illumination that transforms the space before us. I find myself taking deep, measured breaths, as I try to reconcile the reality of this place with the feelings it evokes.
Before me, there’s the nursery we had prepared, but now it's stripped of its warmth, its walls bare and marred by time and neglect. The thistle tapestry is gone, and it leaves behind nothing but the cold, hard truth of abandonment. The bunk bed stands in the place where the crib once stood. It looks like a tomb in its bleakness.

A thick mist envelops the moor the next morning. It blurs the boundaries of time and space. It's impossible to say how late it is by the light alone, as dawn struggles against the dense fog. We rise almost in unison. A glance at my wristwatch confirms it's still early. Too early.
I set about making coffee on the cooker. The aroma fills the bothy, a simple pleasure that seems to brighten the dim interior. As we sip the hot beverage, I notice a subtle shift in our demeanours. Colour creeps back into our pale, drawn faces. Maybe the heat of the coffee ignites a spark of vitality within us. Ava's face, in the faint morning light, tells a story of restless sleep. Her eyes hold shadows of fatigue, framed by thin lines etched by a night of discomfort. The soft light does little to mask the weariness that has settled over her features. A reflection of our shared exhaustion.
We stick to cereal bars for breakfast. That has to do. After packing our bags, we step back onto the moor. With just an hour's walk between us and the station, the end of our trek is within reach. The morning mist, rather than obscuring the moor's beauty, transforms it. There’s a different beauty than the day before—less about grand vistas and more about the intimate, haunting allure that the fog brings. It drifts and weaves over the heather like a living thing in its own right, clings to the tips of the purple flowers, moves in slow, ghostly waves across the undulating land, and wraps the distant hills in a soft, impenetrable shroud. Every rock and tuft of grass that emerges from the fog does so with a sense of revelation, as though we're seeing the moor for the first time again, but through a lens of mystery and enchantment.
Moving through this spectral landscape presents its own challenges. The mist masks the familiar markers and distances, making every step an act of faith. Yet, on this final stretch, the path is less beleaguered by the bogs and mires that marked our earlier journey. It's a relatively dry and solid route that allows us to move with a sense of purpose and direction, even as the fog seeks to disorient.
Then, right before us, Rannoch Station rises from the mist, its presence almost surprising amidst the emptiness of the moor. The buildings are modest, and scattered as if by a careless hand across the landscape. They wear the rugged charm of structures meant to serve a purpose rather than to please the eye. Everything looks weather-beaten, a witness to the harsh conditions they endure. They seem to huddle against the expanse of the moor with the Grampian Mountains in the background, a solitary outpost of human endeavour in the midst of a sprawling nature.
Around us, the silence is complete. There's not a soul in sight. Which lends the scene an air of abandonment. The station clock stands still. But my watch reminds us that there's still an hour to wait before the Fort William train arrives, the one that will eventually take us back to Glasgow.
A sign catches my eye. There must be a tearoom somewhere. And we find it. Remarkably, it’s opened. We find ourselves seated inside, facing each other over cups of coffee. The brew is undeniably better than the bothy one. It's a simple pleasure, yet it feels like a small reward after the rawness of the moor, and the heat of the drink seeps into our bones, and, after some time, chases away the remnants of the cold.
The train, much like the station, holds an air of emptiness. It seems that neither the hour nor the season encourages travel, and this leaves us with more space than we need. In all honesty, entering a place bustling with people would have been too much to bear for me. As we sink into the cushioned seats, the train begins to move. It carries us over a viaduct and away from the outpost, which slowly recedes into the misty landscape behind us.
Gazing out the window, my thoughts drift, unanchored, back to Manchester, back to home. Yet as the train moves further away from the moor and closer to what awaits, I feel restless. For no obvious reason, I think of Dan and Melinda. And then, my thoughts turn toward home again, an empty home, and toward the future, that vast, uncharted territory. And I think I don't want to go back there again, not really.
Ava has taken off her jacket, and lets it drape casually over the seat beside her. I see that bulge in its pocket, and I think of the fortune cookies that still wait to be opened. And I think about how much I don't want to open them. And maybe I might never find the courage or desire to open another one again.
I reach out, and gently take Ava's hands in mine. She looks up. Her expression is one of surprise that quickly gives way to a deeper, more reflective gaze. In her eyes, there's a sadness that mirrors my own, a shared melancholy. I find myself caught in the depth of that look, and wonder if the sorrow I see is solely hers or merely a reflection of my own.
And we look at each other for a very long time without saying a single word.
And then I confess.