The Reluctant Roadtripper (A Romantic Comedy)

Chapter 8

Fyrish Monument, Alness

I'm not a massive fan of hillwalking.

Just walking is fine. Great exercise, of course. But, for me, it's a means to an end. A way to get to the shops. Or the pub.

But walking up a hill? For fun? Hard pass.

Did you know there are nearly 300 mountains in Scotland over 3000 ft? These behemoths are called "Munros", and there are some people who actually go out of their way to climb all of them, effectively collecting the set or "bagging" them? 

They just . . . walk, uphill, for hours on end. Get to the top, finally, take some photos, maybe have a picnic. And then just . . . walk back down again! It beggars belief, really. They'd probably say it was for the endorphins. But I can get those just doing a Tae Bo workout on YouTube for half an hour before walking to the pub. Seems far less of a wasted day to me!

Anyway, the hill that the Fyrish Monument sits on top of is nowhere near Munro status, thankfully. However, the trek uphill is still slowly killing me. My ankles hurt, I can feel blisters forming on my heels, and my thighs are burning. I've been out of breath pretty much since we left the car park.

"If we were in Portugal, I would not be doing anything like this right now," I pant at Nessa, who is also struggling. We're trailing at the back, while Owen strides ahead with Debbie and Michelle. "If I was doing any walking, it would be towards the bar to order another Pina Colada."

"I agree," Nessa nods. She smirks. "But if we hadn't ended up here, you wouldn't have been reunited with Mr Portpatrick over there."

"Don't," I groan. "You know he was the last person I wanted, or expected, to see."

"So you're not even a little bit pleased to see him?" My best friend asks, raising an eyebrow disbelievingly in my direction. Her voice softens. "You really liked him back then, Mir. I remember how smitten you seemed when you told me about his messages. I was so delighted for you when he came to find you that night; you were so happy you were practically glowing."

"Yep, I was. And then look what happened," I sigh.

"He said that he wants to explain himself, right? Can't you just hear him out?"

I grind abruptly to a halt at that. "Ness, you know better than anyone how much he hurt me; why would you even ask that of me?"

She shrugs. "Because he's here, and he actually wants to tell you what went down? Some people never even get a chance for that closure; wouldn't you rather know?"

"Hey, you two! Move your arses; we're almost there!" Debbie, of course. They're significantly ahead of us now. How are they finding this so easy?

As we hustle to try to catch up, I wonder once again if I really want to know what happened that summer in the Canary Islands. What really caused Owen to decide to stay in Lanzarote indefinitely rather than return as planned?

I'm just not sure I'm ready for the truth yet. Before, I could just tell myself he was a selfish arsehole, especially as time faded my memory of him, allowing me to warp and mould him into a villain. But, faced with him now, my real memories are flooding back. And, unfortunately - because I'm fighting it as much as I can - my true feelings.

I told myself, after everything that went on with Donnie, that I wouldn't allow myself to fall for another guy. And I've stuck to that vow. Unfortunately, there seems to have been a loophole there that didn't take Owen's existence, and the metaphorical candle I once held for him, into account.

We pass a tiny lochan as we continue up the hill and then encounter a massive dog. The dog looks like a German Shepherd on steroids and writhes around the ground in delight as we stroke it, looking up at us with massive adoring brown eyes. We laugh out loud when we ask the owner its name . . . Turns out she's a girl, and she's also called Mirren.