Finding Fraser (10 page)

Fumbling Fraser…

9:00 am, Feb 27

Somewhere in the wilds of Scotland,
North of Edinburgh

As you can see from the header, I’ve not
quite made it to Inverness yet. As it turned out, the cheapest bus ticket to
Inverness is what you might call a milk run. We stop at sixteen hamlets along
the way. Choosing to look at the bright side, however, this allows me the
opportunity to use the Wi-Fi provided on the CityLink bus and post to my blog.

I’ve also got the freedom to gaze out the
window in search of red-heided warriors, and try not to think too hard about
the one I met so briefly in Edinburgh.

It is to weep.

- ES

Comments: 43

HiHoKitty, Sapporo, Japan:

Miss Emma! How can you not say the whole
story? Agony in my heart!

Burns’ Bairns, Victoria, CA:

Checking in at a very late hour from the
Wet Coast of Canada to cheer you on, Emma. Our poetry collective are all huge
Jamie and Claire fans. Last night we toasted your journey with a dram and the
leftover haggis from Burn’s Night.
Slainte!

(Read 41 more comments
here
…)

It
had been pitch dark as I made my way along the street to the bus station the
morning after losing my Fraser.
Turned out there
was a direct train from Waverly, Edinburgh’s main train station, but at double
the price of the bus ride, and after an unplanned two-night stay in Edinburgh,
my finances were feeling stretched. Heading north at seven am by bus was my
only option if I wanted to make it all the way while it was still daylight.
When I checked the map, it looked like a fairly short distance compared to the
journey from Chicago to New York. But even with no stops along the way, it
would still be nearly a four-hour trip.

I slumped into my seat and dozed for a
while, and then surfaced long enough to post the brief note to my blog. I tried
several times to find the words to write more, but they just wouldn’t come. The
truth was, I mostly mulled over the loss of the cute guy. Already, in my mind’s
eye, I could see his face bathed in a kind of golden glow. Fair hair just
verging on scruffy, and his crinkly smile as he sat down to talk with me. Apart
from the whole blonde highlights thing, he was physically very similar to
Jamie.

Kind. Considerate. Very, very cute. A spasm
of something akin to pain shot through me at the thought that I hadn’t even
offered to stay connected by email.

I mean—it’s not like I was about to
hand him my card.

But there in the cold, hard light of a
Scottish spring morning, on the bouncy back seat of a CityLink transit bus, the
memory of the fleeting feel of those long, square fingers as they brushed mine
was still enough to make my knees weak. I stared out the window into the
darkness, feeling my face suffuse with heat.
Get a hold of yourself, Sheridan.

The bus shuddered and lurched around a
corner, and slowed to a stop at the on-ramp to the freeway – the
MOTORway.

He was
just a nice young man, welcoming a visitor to his country
, I thought, brooding.

With
his well-muscled forearms.

Reaching down, I yanked my pack onto my
knees. I needed to think of something else. Time to look at the map again. I had
just pulled out my copy of OUTLANDER from the bottom of the front pocket, when
I felt someone slide into the seat beside me.

A merry face, creased as an old tortoise and
topped with a greasy brown abomination of a hat, smiled into mine.

“Here from awa’?” he inquired, indicating
the map inside the book with a nod and gently spraying my face with spittle.

I nodded back and fished a suspiciously
crumpled napkin from my pocket to use when the old fellow turned away.

He didn’t.

I smiled damply back at him, and scrunched a
little further down into my seat as he began to stub his thick finger onto
locations on the map and narrate the entire history of Scotland, beginning with
the Picts.

Inverness in February is … well, safe to
say it’s pretty gray. Strangely enough, it was not terribly cold. Not
seventeen-blocks-in-wintery-Philadelphia cold, at least. But now that I knew
the complete history of the place from its role as an early stronghold of the
Picts, through the
likely-less-evil-than-Will-Shakespeare-would-have-had-you-believe reign of
MacBeth, to the current standing of the Caley Thistle football club, it almost
felt like I was returning home.

My seatmate, Alan MacLeod by name, squeezed
my shoulder fondly as the bus slowed to a halt outside a downtown hotel.

“Ye know where to find me, lass, if ye have
any questions. And mind ye keep that wee card…” he nodded at the scrap of paper
I had safely clutched in one hand. “Jes’ gi’ us a call if ye need transport
anywhere, mind. As I tole’ ye, mah youngest son’s got a Triumph he’s fair proud
of, and he hires himself out all the time ta tourists in the season who need
tae get to the golf links hereabouts.”

“Thank you, Mr. MacLeod. I’ll remember
that.”

He reached a hand up to grasp the seat back,
and groaned as he hauled himself to his feet, but the pretty much tooth-free
smile never left his face. “Ach, it’s just Al, lassie, or Alan if yer feelin’
formal. Call anytime, love.”

And with that, he stumped off up the aisle
of the bus to the front door. I glanced down at the card in my hand.
Alec MacLeod
, it said.
Hired Car Service, Inverness-shire. Taxi,
weddings, evenings out. No trip too small!

Could Alan’s taxi-driving son be another
possible Jamie? I tucked the card into my pack and followed him off the bus.

Further Fieldwork…

5:00 pm, February 27

Inverness, Scotland

Arrived safely in Inverness.

The trip was much less eventful than
earlier bus journeys, thankfully. I had a very informative seatmate who ensured
I will never confuse Jacobians with followers of anyone but King James again! Perhaps
the history lesson has cured me of my fear of traveling? I think it more likely
that now I am here, in beautiful wintery Scotland, my sense of adventure has
stepped back into the lead.

Thanks to all who wrote such kind
comments about my time in Edinburgh. Many of you are worried I met and lost my
Jamie Fraser on the first day in Scotland, and that I will quit trying. I want
to set your minds at ease.

First of all, the man I met was blonder
than Jamie. He might have been roughly the same size, and was quite kind and
friendly——but——but, he’s gone, okay? He’s too blonde
and he’s gone and I have no idea where he lives. Think of him as a practice
Jamie. I’m moving on, and I hope you’ll do the same.

For now, I turn my attention to
Inverness, the land of Frank and Claire’s second honeymoon. The true beginning
point of Claire’s story. A chance for me to find the stones she walked through.

I promise to report in!

- ES

Comments: 15

MagischeSteinkraus, Berlin, Deutchland:

Sounds like a good German boy.
Hier finden Sie ein weiteres Jamie!

HiHoKitty, Sapporo, Japan:

Did false-Jamie wear kilt, Miss Emma? How
you find REAL Jamie?

KnittersNotQuitters, Corner Brook,
NL&L, Canada:

Huge Claire and Jamie fans here in the wilds
of Newfoundland. Hoping you find your boy, and knitting up a special scarf in
honour of your journey!

SophiaSheridan, Chicago, USA:

I just want you to know that, of all the
humiliations you have foisted on this family, this is the greatest. I only hope
and pray our parents stay ignorant of this little experiment until it dies a
righteous and terrible death.

(Read 11 more comments
here
…
)

I
tried to ignore Sophia’s comment and focus on all the others cheering me on.
But it was hard. Mostly because she was right. This was an exercise
in public humiliation, no doubt. But it was far less painful than Internet
dating had been. There, I’d even had to put a picture of myself online, and
answer hideously embarrassing questions for the whole world to see. The whole
dating world, anyway. In the end, all I got out of it was a husband who lasted
just over a year—two, if you count the cyber-courtship period.

But it got me thinking. Until then, I’d
thought of my blog as little more than an online diary of an adventure. Reading
all the comments, though… HiHoKitty was certainly taking me seriously. And from
what I’d learned from Genesie, nothing could be more serious to a knitter than
designing a pattern.

It kinda blew my mind. If the blog was
giving inspiration to others to go out and follow their dreams too—what
could be the harm in that? Maybe it was time I started to take it more
seriously.

So I pushed Sophia’s voice to the back of my
head and spent the next two weeks exploring every nook and cranny of Inverness.

I prowled through the
quiet aisles of St. Andrew’s Cathedral, with its strangely capped spires and
beautiful stained glass. I laughed at the practical Scots, converting the rusty
red Inverness Castle into contemporary use as a Sherriff’s court. I spent days
wandering the winding streets, in the rain and sleet, peering into the windows
of tiny B&Bs hunting for ladies who looked like Claire and Frank’s
housekeeper Mrs. Baird.

Found lots of them, too.

But any evidence of
Claire and Frank themselves was nowhere to be found. And on top of that? My
cheap accommodation evaporated.

Football Fellas…

3:00 pm, March 14

Inverness, Scotland

In light of reader HiHoKitty’s recent
question, I’ve decided to open this post with a few words of wisdom on the
subject of meeting Scottish men in the wild. In the spirit of full disclosure,
I am forced to report that no, they do not wear kilts all of the time. [I
would, however, be first in line to suggest that possibility, should a national
referendum on the subject ever arise!] I am trying to not get caught up in
cultural stereotyping of this particular sort. So far, the kilted Scotsmen I
have come across have been strictly of the ‘piping for the tourists’ variety.
This time of year is not a big draw for visitors from afar, so even those have
been few and far between.

Rest assured, HiHoKitty, that I have,
however, greeted every kilted man I have seen with a smile. Most of them have
found it hard to smile back with the blowpipe in their mouths, but I remain
hopeful.

I feel that the most important advice I
can offer for travelers who seek to meet others is to set aside your computer
and get out among the people. Situate yourself in locations where locals
gather. Do a speed-dating event, if one is nearby!

In travel news, I’ve been staying in an
awesome little hostel that was dead empty, because, as noted earlier, there
aren’t too many tourists strolling through the Highlands in March. The ‘no
tourist’ situation has been definitely to my benefit, though, since the proprietors
let me stay for five pounds a day, as long as I didn’t eat. But apparently the local
rugby club, Craig Dunan, has decided to put on a clinic, and players from a
bunch of nearby towns are all converging on Inverness. The hostel manager said
she felt bad, but she couldn’t turn down the money from such a big group.

Anyway, I’ve seen all I can in town here,
so it’s time to turn my attention to finding Claire’s standing stones at
Craigh na Dun
. I can’t find a reference
to precisely where the stones are in my copy of OUTLANDER, but at least from
the name of the rugby team, they
must
be nearby.

Wish me luck!

- ES

Comments: 33

HiHoKitty, Sapporo, Japan:

In the story, Mister Crook drive Claire
on his motor-cycle a leisurely jaunt from Mrs. Baird’s house. I am not sure how
distant is a ‘jaunt’, but I think
Craigh
na Dun
must not be far away. Luck to you, Miss Emma. Luck!

(Read 32 more comments
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…)