Page 11 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle (Coorie Castle Crafts #2)

Seeing this Scottish castle, she could easily imagine how it must have looked when it was built in the thirteenth century, its purpose to put the fear of God into the English invaders. She almost expected to see men with swords guarding the entrance and archers positioned at the top of the towers.

The place had changed since she’d been here last, and she wondered whether Mhairi Gray still owned it. She couldn’t recall her dad saying anything about the castle changing hands, but the woman must be in her eighties, so she probably didn’t.

Whoever owned it now had done a considerable amount of work.

There was a paved area in front of what she remembered being disused outbuildings, and in the corner where the two wings of those buildings met was a cafe called Coorie and Cuppa, and Freya smiled at the old Scots word coorie, which meant ‘cosy’.

She also saw signs directing visitors to a maze, a duck pond, a children’s play area and a woodland walk.

A quick scan of the studios told her that there were a variety of crafts on the site, from blown glass to silver jewellery, as well as the gift shop that Tara had mentioned.

One end of the long building, the one nearest, housed the largest of the workshops, and she wandered inside to see a glass-blower hard at work.

It was hot in there, with several furnaces going, and she wondered how he stuck it.

Today wasn’t even particularly warm, yet the heat was stifling, even with a good few metres and a counter between her and the fires.

There was a printed sign explaining what the various furnaces were for, which she examined with interest, chuckling to herself when she read that one of them – used for reheating the glass to soften it so it could be worked further or kept hot enough to avoid it cracking – was called a ‘glory hole’.

She watched for a while, fascinated as the man rolled a long pole with a blob of orange-white molten material on the end, the glass gradually changing shape, lengthening and widening as he worked it.

Eventually, her attention was drawn to the far end of the room where there was another glass workshop, and when she moved closer, she saw that the area was dedicated to stained glass.

There wasn’t quite as much drama here, so she contented herself with studying the many completed or semi-completed pieces that were dotted around the space.

Stained glass was something she would like to have a go at, and maybe she would when she found the time. Glass-blowing… not so much. The intense heat and the danger of burning herself put her off. She classed it in the same ballpark as blacksmithing – another craft she was too wary to try.

Freya emerged from the glass studios and went in search of the pottery, her heart lifting when she saw the array of ceramics displayed in the window. Pushing the door open, she went inside and was immediately transported. This was where she belonged, and her spirits soared.

The potter was hard at work, a bowl taking shape under his fingers while she watched, transfixed.

No matter how many thousands of times she had seen this done, and had done it herself, it still felt like magic.

She assumed every craftsperson felt the same when they transformed a blank page, a lump of wood or a piece of uninspiring metal into something different, new and beautiful. This was why she did what she did.

After watching him for a moment, her gaze roamed around the workshop, noting the barrel-shaped kiln.

A pair of protective mitts lay on a nearby shelf, along with a pair of safety glasses, cones and items of kiln furniture.

The studio’s set-up was much like her own.

There was a sink, an area for wedging the clay and hand-building, the wheel itself for throwing, and a glazing station.

There were bags to keep the clay moist, tools for throwing, decorating and trimming, a set of scales, pots of brushes, wareboards, bats for throwing, bowls, sponges, bottles of glazes, slips, and stains.

Drying rails held greenware that had yet to be fired, and on other shelves bisqueware sat ready to be glazed.

Several aprons hung on hooks near the door, and everything was neat and nicely arranged.

Freya’s attention returned to the potter as, satisfied with his creation, he took a wire cutter and sliced through the base of the bowl, separating it from the circular wooden bat that sat on the wheel.

Only then did he look up from his work. ‘Hi.’

‘Hello. You’ve got a nice set-up.’

He smiled. ‘Are you a potter?’

‘I am.’

Getting to his feet, he picked up the bat with the freshly thrown bowl, and carried it to the drying rack. ‘I’m Rob. I’d shake your hand, but…’ He held up his clay-covered hands.

‘Freya. Have you been here long?’

‘About four years. I used to be a copper and pottery was my hobby, but now I do it full time. You?’

‘I teach and I also potter.’

‘Are you local? You sound Scottish.’

‘I grew up on Skye, but I live and work in London now.’

‘Back for a visit?’ He was cleaning the wheel as he spoke, washing it thoroughly. ‘Duncoorie is a braw place to escape the rat race for a while. I’m from Newcastle originally.’

‘I thought I heard a Geordie accent.’

‘We came here for a holiday once and fell in love with the place. Me and the missus decided to move to Skye when I left the police force. We live in Portree now. Duncoorie is too quiet for her. Not enough shops.’

Freya said, ‘The craft centre seems busy.’

‘It is, thank God. I sell through the gift shop, so the more visitors, the better.’

‘I’ll have a look at that later.’

‘You should. There are some lovely things, real quality workmanship.’

‘Like yours,’ she said truthfully.

‘Thanks, that’s kind of you to say so.’

‘I’ll leave you to it. Nice meeting you,’ she said.

‘You, too. Maybe you could stop by again before you leave?’

‘I definitely will. I’m going to be here for a couple of months.’

‘Ah, that’s the upside of teaching – the school holidays. But don’t let my daughter-in-law hear me say that. She claims they’re not long enough! She teaches primary kids. I wouldn’t have the patience. What about you?’

‘Higher education.’

‘University?’

‘Uh-huh.’ She nodded.

‘What subject?’

‘Ceramics.’

‘When you said you teach, I thought you meant in general, not that you teach pottery . Got any tips?’

‘I doubt you need any.’ She smiled. ‘You clearly know what you’re doing.’

‘Well, don’t forget to pop in again,’ he said as she turned to leave. ‘It’ll be nice to talk shop with a fellow potter. My wife’s eyes glaze over when I start talking about slips and stains.’

After promising him she would, Freya left to explore the other studios, but before she’d taken more than a step or two, she heard her name being called and glanced around to find Cal walking towards her.

‘Have you come for a look around?’ he asked.

‘Actually, I’ve come to give you this.’ She pulled one of the bottles of whisky from her bag and held it out.

He took it, turning it over in his hands. ‘What’s this for?’

‘For helping move that sofa. I’ve got one for Mack, too.’ She removed the other bottle and offered it to him. ‘Would you mind passing it on, along with my thanks?’

He made no move to take it from her. ‘You can give it to him yourself. I’m on my way to see him right now, so how about you come with me?’

Freya was taken aback. ‘No, it’s OK, you can give it to him.’

‘I’m sure he’d prefer if you did. Come on, it’s not far.’

He wasn’t taking no for an answer, was he?

And Freya had to admit that she wasn’t averse to seeing Mack again.

The attraction she felt for the man was undoubtedly an echo from her teenage years, but as she didn’t intend to act on it, what was the harm?

Anyway, Cal was right: it probably was more polite to thank Mack in person.

Cal strode towards a narrow lane leading past the castle, and she hurried to catch up.

The lane led directly down to the loch, and she fell into step with him. She soon heard the lap of waves against rocks, as a small crescent-shaped beach appeared in front of them. A wooden jetty jutted into the water and a boat lay above the high tide mark.

There was a building directly in front of her, which used to be an old boathouse, but now looked lived in and cared for.

‘Oh, how lovely!’ she exclaimed, when Cal told her that it had recently been transformed into self-catering accommodation.

‘And this is my house.’ He pointed to a whitewashed cottage with a wonderful deck facing the water. ‘Although, technically, it belongs to Mhairi.’

‘Does she still own the place?’ Freya was incredulous.

‘She does, and she continues to be very active in the running of the estate.’

As they neared the Range Rover parked outside the cottage, it beeped into life and Freya got in the passenger seat.

‘Where does Mack live?’ she asked.

‘He’s got a house not far from Muirporth Quay. That’s where he moors his boat.’

Freya knew the quay well. Her dad used to moor his trawler there.

Cal was saying, ‘He runs a whale- and dolphin-watching business – although I’m hoping he’ll agree to the proposition I have for him. It’s why I want to see him today. He should be returning from the last afternoon excursion about now.’

‘You should have said! I don’t want to intrude on a business meeting.’

Cal chuckled. ‘You’ve been in the Big Smoke too long. It’s hardly a meeting – a quick chat, that’s all. It’ll take five minutes.’

The informality of the island appeared to be another thing she’d forgotten, having become so used to the considerably more formal way of life of the college, where emails, conference calls and shared documents were the order of the day, and diaries were synced every other second.