The highlands of Scotland are a magical place. A place where the world still seems untamed; where those who choose to make their homes among the glens and mountains are doing so only by the grace of the elements. And those elements can be harsh. Vicious winds and heavy snow, rain that rushes down into the valleys with ever growing speed.
But the reward for battling those elements is one that cannot be quantified.

Beauty.

Stunning natural beauty where the eye decides to look. Moors painted purple with heather, mountains soaring towards the clouds, lochs that sparkle in the sunshine. The Highlands are a place where it's easy to lose oneself in the peace and quiet, where it's just as plausible to believe that nymphs and sprites might dwell in the shadows of the forests or that mythical beasts might lurk beneath the mirror-like surface of a loch. In the centre of the country, in the shadow of the Grampian mountains it is easy to find places that haven’t changed much in the last hundred years or more.
Dotted here and there in the largely untouched countryside are villages and towns. Small and quaint with picture perfect, stone clad cottages and pretty churches that wouldn't look out of place on a postcard. To those who've never been it's easy to understand why they might imagine everyone swathed in tartan, munching on shortbread and drinking whisky while plotting how to avenge the misdeeds done against their families in the days of old.

While the clan wars are a thing of the past, that past still clings to the hills and valleys. Large tracts of land fall under the stewardship of a laird, landowners who must look after the wildlife and agriculture within their borders. They must also maintain the traditions for the new generations to experience and grow to love, leading to their continuation into the future.
At the heart of all this magic and mystery lay Fairholm.

Fairholm means 'beautiful island' in the old language and it suited the place perfectly. It was the name given to the ancient estate of the Murray family. Its furthest border ran along the edge of the moorland, with Loch Socair at the heart and going west to the group of mountains that marked the end of valley. 

The Murray family had lived there for as long as anyone could remember, and local records going back more than three centuries contained details of the family even then. They were known as generous and thoughtful lairds, looking after all who worked and lived on their land. Believing that everyone deserved the best possible chance in life, they had sponsored the building of a local school available to all those who lived in the area. Sons of the local nobility studied alongside the offspring of the shepherds and gamekeepers who worked the land they lived on.

Life was idyllic and yet even in the less pleasant times, the Murrays did all they could to minimise the discomfort of their tenants. During the harshest winters they opened their doors to the locals and gave them shelter in the great hall. The village school still bore the family crest above the door, even though the building had changed many times over the years, and every child in the area knew of the family's kindness.

But as frequently happens, despite their goodness and decency to their fellow men, tragedy befell the family. As the title of Laird is passed down through the family, bestowed upon the eldest male heir, it is obviously important that the family line be maintained. The system worked well. Until one sad day the current Laird died, and did so long before his time. He was young and had yet to become a father. Since the accident claimed both him and his pretty young wife, upon their passing the estate was left without a leader. The tenants and locals tried to maintain things as best they could but without someone to guide them, it was hard.

Eventually a distant relative was found, a cousin, who came and took over the lairdship. Fairholm had a laird once more and life continued almost as it had always done.

The tragic loss of the young Laird hung over the area for years, an accident that was used as a cautionary tale for centuries. An accident that left many questions unanswered. Some said the estate around the house was haunted, with lights seen at odd times and footsteps heard when visitors believed they were alone. Some said that was just a story told to keep trespassers out of the private parts of the estate. Story or truth, it was rare to find anyone after dark lingering in the ground of the house.

Almost everyone knew the story.

No one knew the truth.

"This is ridiculous." His breathing was slightly laboured as he tried to drag his case behind him. The little wheels designed to glide smoothly and soundlessly through the airports and high class hotels of the world were struggling against the gravel currently beneath them. "Whoever heard of a station without a taxi rank? In this day and age?!" He was talking to himself, grumbling more than anything else. He paused, to try and catch his breath and to shove a hand into his pocket. Fishing out his phone, he swiped the screen to unlock it. After a second or two a muffled expletive left his lips as he locked the device and thrust it back into his pocket. Without signal it was little more than a high end clock. 

"Oh, I hate this place!" Booted feet continuing their stomping journey down the road, his suitcase resuming its battle behind him, he started walking once more.  That he was surrounded by scenery that would easily stop most people in their tracks was irrelevant. He couldn't care less for the moors that stretched around on either side of him, making the road ahead a thin ribbon of grey through the gently bobbing bracken and lilac-toned heather. The mountains that rose up almost angrily from the rolling hills and the distant loch sparkling in the sunshine could all vanish for all he cared. The ground could open up and swallow the lot into the bowels of the earth. It didn't matter.

Callum Murray didn't want to be there.

The call had come out of the blue, telling him that some Great Uncle or other had shuffled off this mortal coil and that he - by virtue of his lineage or some other random nonsense - was now the laird of Fairholm. He had laughed. Loudly. After a while the slightly frustrated tone at the other end of the line eventually made him realise this might actually be a real phone call that he should probably be listening to. He knew he should have felt honoured at the responsibility that was now his but...he barely felt anything. Fairholm was a name he knew, a place he'd spent childhood holidays, but it was far from being little more than a vague memory. 
It definitely wasn't his home.

The fifteen mile trudge from the remote moorland station into the village wasn't helping his thinking on the subject. He was fit, as fit as any young businessman working in the city could be. He worked hard and played hard, as the saying went. He was in the gym several times a week, no matter how long he worked day to day, and while he could have made the journey far quicker had he wished to it seemed oddly appropriate to be going as slowly as he was. It was a silent act of rebellion against what was happening.
To ease the journey a little, and to try and limit his ranting, he had pushed the buds of his earphones into his ears not long after giving his phone one last try. Music was soon helping to take the sullen edge off of his mood and as his pace became more of a carefree man's leisurely stroll than that of a foot stomping toddler. He even began to take notice of his surroundings slightly. The road was less gravelly now that they were leaving the moorlands behind them. More and more fields began to line the road and then, before him, at a bend in the tarmac he saw the loch. He didn't try to hold back the smile that spread across his lips, genuinely surprised at how happy he felt to see that particular part of the world once more, regardless of the reason that had brought him there. Before he even truly realised, he had left his case by the side of the road and soon his boots were resting on the small stretch of sand between land and water.

Stretching out before him, as far as the eye could see, was Loch Socair. He knew that somewhere at the far end, out of sight for now, was the house he had inherited, but for the moment that was the last thing on his mind. All he could see was water and sky, each trying to outdo one another with their brilliance. The hills and mountains that surrounded the long lake provided a frame of sorts for the peaceful vista. He didn't know how long he stood there, just staring, drinking in the view. But when he realised he should probably get going, the last of the battery in his mp3 player had been used up somewhere between leaving the road and that moment, and the earphones in his ear were now doing nothing at all. 
Wrapping the white covered cables back around the latest electronic victim of the trip, he bundled the lot into the pocket of his jacket before re-joining his case and setting off around the edge of the loch. Now the wheels were a constant, quiet, rumble as they trundled over the tarmac. Callum found himself looking up with ever more frequency along the way, eyes flicking between the road ahead and the gorgeous views beside him. At times along the way the road was almost within touching distance of the water; every now and then it seemed to veer away and head off into the trees, but it always found its way back to the loch.

Callum paused half way around the loch to unbutton his jacket and stuff it into the backpack hanging from his shoulder. The clouds were burning off and the heat of the sun was slowly but surely building. Despite the length of the day he'd had, he felt a second wind from all the fresh air and unexpected rushes of excitement at seeing long forgotten but immediately familiar views. He'd taken three trains: the first from London to Glasgow, the second to Fort William and one last, small and very old looking, train over the moors to Fairholm. The whole day had been spent on the move, drinking questionable coffee from the buffet car, teamed with some thoroughly unexciting sandwiches purchased at the same time. Walking along in the sunshine with nothing but the sound of the water lapping against the shore and the sound of the wind in the trees was so much more refreshing than he'd ever have considered it would be. He carried his case over towards the shoreline and sat on a large hunk of stone sitting conveniently beside the water's edge. He slowly drank his way through half of the water he had with him before fishing out the remains of a half-eaten tuna mayonnaise sandwich, purchased somewhere north of Glasgow, and eating it in silence, just letting his eyes wander out across the loch.

In spite of his intention to do nothing of the sort he was soon turning his face up into the sun, now beaming down from where there had previously been clouds, with a contented smile on his face. There might not be everything he needed at that moment, but he had to admit it was almost impossible to find that kind of peace and tranquility in the city.

London had been his home for as long as he could remember; his parents had made the move into the suburbs before he had managed his first words. The life they had lived before, up here in the Highlands was simply a story he had heard every now and then. As a child it made no sense to him why anyone would leave such a place to make their home in the land of grey box like buildings and no open spaces. His holidays there had always been joyful affairs, full of rock climbing and getting good and dirty - much to the dismay of his mother, who had furnished their home in clean lines and a lot of white. It was functional and tidy, like most of the things connected to her, and he knew she had never really liked spending time in the old and rambling Scottish house.

As he'd grown, the holidays to Fairholm had all but stopped and by the time he left home to go to University the estate was a memory and nothing more. After that, his life became about his career, about success and getting the right numbers at the end of the day or by 'close of play' on a Friday. He had friends, of a kind. Other young people who were sure their happiness lay in the balance of their bank account. They socialised, or at least, they sent each other electronic Christmas greetings and birthday messages. They were all successful at what they did and, although none of them ever stopped to really think about, when the day was over they returned to their expensive apartments and penthouses and unwound alone.

He grinned proudly as he managed to pick out the slate roofs of the village at the end of the loch, in the middle of which rose the spire of the village church. The village, while part of the estate, was Kinloch Socair. Fairholm proper didn't start for another few miles beyond the village's borders. Callum reckoned, after a quick glance at the chromed face of his watch, that another hour or so and he'd be in the village. From there he was sure he'd be able to organise transport up to the family house. His house. The smile weakened a little as the reality began to dawn on him slightly. Letting blue eyes travel from the direction he'd just come and back down to the village he realised all of that land, the loch and far more besides, was now his. After letting out a deep breath, he washed away the last of the tuna with another mouthful of water and rose to his feet.

"This makes no sense," he mused, shaking his head as he headed back to the road and continued on his way. His voice was less angry now. The walk had softened his temper and taken the edge from his words. He considered it was probably a good thing he had walked. It wasn't the fault of anyone up here that he had been asked to come, that he had become...what he had. Getting out of a taxi full of annoyance and venom wouldn't win him any new friends and probably just make everything that much more difficult.

He had his father's temper. That he knew. It was always a case of speak first, think later, then apologise. He was all fire and granite and, in Callum's head, just the sort of man you could imagine running a Scottish estate. He was friendly, with a ready smile and twinkling eyes, but no one could ever have thought him a fool. As his grandmother had told him, his father was canny and bright - qualities Callum always wished he had inherited. His father had been tall, like Callum was now, and with broad shoulders that always looked odd when he forced them inside the jacket of a suit. His father was an outdoorsman, he'd grown up at Fairholm, and Callum had never understood why he'd made the choice to move them all to London. It just didn't make sense. But the money there was good and for a young family, Callum supposed, it must have made sense. He remembered asking about it once when he'd been a child, during one of their holidays. The answer he'd been given had been that if they'd lived at Fairholm, it wouldn't have been as special to go and visit. The young Callum had shrugged and dashed back out to splash in the stream or climb a tree or whatever it was he'd been doing and the discussion had been over.

Kinloch Socair was tiny. The total population barely numbered more than a couple of hundred, if that. A tiny little group of stone cottages build close together at the head of the loch. The church was at the centre, with the village hall next door. The loch was fed both by water from the moors and from a river that wound its way through the glen. An exceedingly old looking bridge curved up over it to join the two halves of the village that were built on opposite banks. On the other side lay the school, the village post office and general store, a little hairdressers-come-cafe and the only petrol station for several tens of miles in almost every direction. Around all of these things were clustered the houses of those that called the village their home. All almost identical to the untrained eye but each had a different coloured door, painted in bright, vivid shades, and different flowers in window boxes and trained to grow around the door.

"It's like stepping back in time," he muttered, crossing the road and heading towards the post office. He didn't even bother to look for traffic; he hadn't seen a car since he'd left the station on the moors and even that had been parked in one of the six spaces that made up the station's car park.

He paused to look at the plethora of leaflets and posters carefully tacked up inside the window. Puppies for sale, holiday cottages to rent and a Highland dancing evening at the village hall. A reminder not to disturb the wildlife that lived in the nearby woods along another about renewing fishing licences. Once inside, it was clear the space had been divided into two: the post office and the shop. Two elderly women were at the counter on the post office half and so Callum took a slow, curious, stroll around the shelves. It wasn't meant to be a shop to cater to every whim and desire a shopper might have, but it had everything you might need to survive if you couldn't make it to one of the larger towns. Bread and milk, tinned goods and a very tiny freezer section. There was also a larger chiller full of meat, the labels proudly announcing that the shrink wrapped packages contained venison from the Fairholm estate. A tiny version of the family crest in the corner of each sticker.

"I suppose the family money has to come in from somewhere." He picked up one chunk of the very richly coloured meat and turned it over in his hands. It looked healthy and with very little fat. He knew he'd eaten the game before but he couldn't remember for the life of him how it tasted.

Continuing around the shop he found a couple of racks of postcards and a small set of shelves with the day's newspapers, or rather the papers from the day before if you cared to check the date closely. A fairly generous selection of confectionary and an even wider one of shortbread. He chuckled at that. He knew he'd always pestered his parents for money to buy a packet of the buttery biscuits in the shape of fingers, each dredged with sugar, whenever they popped into the shop. Looking around he was pretty sure it hadn't changed at all in the all the years he'd been away. Moving to queue up behind the women he noticed with another quiet laugh that the staff hadn't changed either.

He didn't try to eavesdrop on their conversation but the lady before him and the woman serving behind the counter weren't exactly whispering.

"He's coming, they said," the old lady before him, her hair perfectly permed (in the local hairdresser's no doubt), shared doubtfully.

"He is?" The marginally younger woman behind the counter, a navy blue apron tied over her blouse and skirt, replied incredulously.

The old lady nodded with a sound that only women of a certain age can make, a nasal kind of hum that indicates the speaker's disapproval at whatever the current topic of conversation might be.

"Well, that's a surprise, to be sure," The woman serving her sighed. She was apparently weighing a series of letters that needed stamps. The scales she was using were as old as she was, Callum guessed, the needle in the display wavering over each amount as she swapped between the envelopes each with the same slightly shaky handwriting on the front. Callum was also sure that not a single one of them would need more than a first class stamp to get it anywhere the sender might want it to go but he refrained from comment.

"I'll believe it when I see it myself, Mary," announced the woman with the perm.

"Aye," Mary, apparently, responded from behind the counter, having finally finished her weighing and starting to flick through a simply enormous book that contained stamps of every possible denomination. "Do y'think he'll be any good?"

The customer shrugged.

"I mean, I don't think he's been here since he was a bairn, would he even remember anything about the place?"

It was then Callum realised they were talking about him, and his interest in the conversation increased exponentially. 

"I'm sure I don't know," the letter writer said in a world weary voice. "I mean, I've seen my share of lairds in my time here, both good and bad, but at least his predecessors had the decency to grow up here!"

Callum was about to retort that the decision to move away had hardly been his when Mary stopped her stamp search and interjected her own comment instead.

"Now, now, Iris." Her finger held her place in the huge folder of stamps. "He was a child when they left and you can't blame them for going like they did."

"I suppose you're right." Iris took a moment or two before replying. "Still, I'll reserve my judgement until he gets here. That is, assuming he stays long enough to make an impression. City folk don't tend to do too well away from all that smog and muck!"

The pair giggled like schoolgirls, which was even stranger when one considered their ages, before Mary resumed her hunt for the first class stamps. Upon finding the right section in her massive file she began tearing off and sticking one onto each other envelopes, pressing each one against a moist sponge in a little tray. Callum very much wanted to say that in the city, with all its filth, they had self-adhesive stamps these days but again, somehow, he restrained himself.

"I won't be a moment," Mary suddenly said and broke through his thoughts, making him wonder if he'd accidentally said them aloud.

"No hurry," he replied quickly, cheeks growing a little hot with embarrassment.

Letters stamped and total cost calculated, Iris stepped aside to let him get to the counter, rifling through her handbag to look for the right change.

"Is it stamps you're after? Or can I put this away?" Mary asked with a friendly expression, gesturing to the book of stamps.

"No, no stamps, thank you." He shook his head and waited until she had put it back under the counter. "I was wondering if you had a phone I could borrow?" He held up his mobile with an apologetic smile. "Mine isn't much use at the moment."

"Of course." Mary, reached under the counter and produced a phone. For most people of his generation how to work it would have been a mystery but he had seen one in his childhood, in the hallway of Fairholm. The numbers, arranged in a circle, were covered by a silver plated ring that one spun to find the number you wanted.

His eyes dropped from her proud face to the telephone and back again. A little of her smile faded from her lips in the process.
"I, er, I don't know the number."

"You sure you need a telephone, love?" Iris chipped in helpfully.

"I need to contact Fairholm House." He said as politely as he could manage. "But I don't have the current number to hand. Do you think you could help me?"

"Fairholm House?" Mary's brows knitted together as she pulled the phone back towards herself and began to dial the number. Standing and waiting for the call to be put through. "And who shall I say is calling?" She asked haughtily.

"You can tell them it's Callum." He replied, making no attempt to hide his mirth as he gave his surname and both women coloured slightly. "Callum Murray."

After a rather brief and obviously uncomfortable phone call between Mary and someone at Fairholm, Callum thought he'd spare the two women any further embarrassment and wait for his lift outside the shop. Both of them were rather flustered by the whole thing and while hearing himself being spoken about in that manner was never a pleasant experience, they hadn't done it with the intention of offending him. Besides which, to a certain degree, what they had said had been true. After all, he'd only been out of London for a day and he'd already been bemoaning the loss of wireless internet and mobile phone signal. Dragging his case to the kerb, he sat down on the edge, heels in the road and back against the piece of luggage. With the sun on his face once more, it wasn't a bad place to wait.

He pretended not to notice when Iris left the post office a few minutes after he'd sat down, her feet striking a quick tempo on the flagstones as she hurried away. Idly he wondered how long it would take for the news to spread about his arrival. People talked in villages more so than in the cities, he was certain. For a second he tried to figure out if he actually knew the names of each of his neighbours in London. He thought one was called Tom...something. And then there was Sharon, who had a sausage dog. But out of the six doors that opened out into the hallway he called his own, he only knew those two residents. Here, everyone would know everyone else. Families grew up alongside one another. Friends made in childhood here would be friends for life.

Frowning he tried to remember the name of the boy he played with whenever they visited Fairholm. He was the son of the head gamekeeper, ruddy cheeked and light of foot, he was great fun and usually laughing but he could move without making a sound when he needed or wanted to. He'd obviously spent time with his father out in the woods, checking for poacher's traps and the like.
"Oh come on! Think!" Callum groaned, running a hand back through his hair and wracking his brains for the answer. "His father was Macaulay and his name was..."

"Mr Murray?" A voice called out and Callum realised he was no longer alone in the street. Pulled up outside the post office was a quad bike, spattered with mud, the back half covered with a platform of sorts and astride it sat a young man of a similar age to himself. No helmet just a shock of severely windblown hair, rich brown in colour, and half of his face hidden behind sunglasses. How he'd missed his approach given how loud he knew those kinds of vehicles to be was a mystery to Callum, he figured he was concentrating a lot more than he realised.

"That's me." Callum stood up and offered his hand with a smile. "I take it you've come from Fairholm. Sorry to have to get you out like this."

"No worries, Sir," The young man replied, his grip almost too tight as he pumped Callum's hand up and down vigorously a few times. "We do all work for you, after all."
                            
"I suppose you're right but please," Callum looked uncomfortable, "None of that 'sir' business, please. It's just Callum. And you're...?"

"Right you are then, Callum it is." The face before him broke into a wide smile that looked oddly familiar. "And I'm the head gamekeeper at Fairholm. You can call me-"

"Hamish?" Callum exclaimed suddenly, unable to keep the excitement from his voice. Clearly confused the man before him eased his sunglasses from his face and a startled pair of eyes appeared from beneath them. "It is you, isn't it! Macaulay Dunkirk's son. Right?"

For a second or two the gamekeeper seemed unable to do anything but stare at Callum and he wondered if he hadn't made some mistake or other in speaking up. Then the smile returned to his lips and he grinned at the man before him.

"No. Way." He laughed, rising up to get off the vehicle in an oddly graceful manoeuvre for his size and pull Callum into a very unexpected, and very tight, bear hug. "No way is that little Callum from the city!"

"Well, it was!" Callum replied, his voice theatrically breathy, although given the tightness of the hug it wasn't entirely playful. "Before you crushed him!"

With a boom of laughter, and a slightly too hard slap to his back, Hamish released him from the bone crushing embrace and allowed him to catch his breath.

"So, how've you been?" Hamish made no attempt to hide the journey his eyes quickly made over his old friend. "We've not seen hide nor hair of you for years." He laughed again. "Make that decades!"

"Good! I'm good!" Callum nodded. "And what about you? How's your family?"

"They're all well. Father retired a few years back now and I took over as head gamekeeper." Hamish's expression grew proud.

"I always knew you would."

"What about you though? I mean, I knew you were family, obviously, but I didn't realise that you were in line for the lairdship!"

"To be perfectly honest, neither did I!" Callum wasn't lying, that he was ever in with a chance of being given the title had never really occurred to him. "But apparently I'm the eldest male in my particular branch of the Murray tree and so...here I am." He grinned, Hamish didn't seem to find it as amusing as he did. The gamekeeper's rather stern expression making Callum feel a pang of guilt. "I'm sorry I didn't keep in touch. I was always a poor letter writer and I always assumed I'd come back. I just didn't realise it would take me so long."

There was a pause where the two just looked at each other. The face before him was mature and the frame bordering on being enormous but within the eyes, Callum could still see the friend he'd had as a child. Callum wasn't short himself, standing at just over six feet tall but he was sure there was at least another five or six inches between him and the gamekeeper.

"So." Hamish eventually said, saving them both from the increasingly awkward silence. "I take it you'd like a lift."

"If you could." Callum nodded. "I've already walked from the station but I think I'd give up if I had to walk the rest of the way." Hamish looked impressed at how far he'd already come by foot and that made Callum feel a little better about the situation.

"You alright on the back?" A large hand slapped the small platform on the back. "I was out on this when I got the call to come and get you and it made sense to just come on this rather than waste fuel going back to get the car."

"Yeah. Sure." Callum didn't sound at all sure as he warily eyed the space he was supposed to sit.

"We'll stick your case underneath and you can hold on to the rails. After all, you never fell off when we were kids, I'm sure you'll be fine." Hamish winked, wedging the wheeled suitcase beneath the frame of the platform with a little more force than Callum thought was strictly necessary.

"Your faith in me is very reassuring." He laughed, nervously, wiping suddenly sweaty palms against the backs of his jeans before climbing awkwardly onto the back of the quad bike.

"Hold on tight!" Hamish yelled as he turned the key in the ignition and the bike growled into life.

The ride from the village to the estate was more than a little hair-raising. The quad hurtled along the country lanes at a speed Callum was sure wasn't allowed by law. Given that neither of them was wearing a helmet either, it was safe to say, he felt more than a little uneasy at several points during the journey. Every corner seemed to rob him of his breath and every bump in the road, he felt sure, was going to catapult them both up into the air. By the time the high stone wall that marked the edge of the grounds was running alongside the road, Callum was feeling considerably worse for wear. His knuckles white as he clung onto the handrail, his entire body shaking with adrenaline.

Turning off the road and into the lands beyond the wall, Hamish slowed the quad somewhat. There were doubtlessly deer and other wildlife just out of sight among the trees that he didn't want to frighten.  
"You alright back there?" Hamish yelled over the growl of the engine, the pitch changing as they left the road and veered up over a small rise in the ground.

"I think so!" Callum yelled back, sounding a lot braver and calmer than he felt. Something he was privately proud of.

The quad sped over rolling hills as it took them deeper and deeper into the private estate that was the home of the Laird. Appearing to leap over small brooks and ditches with little effort, despite their decrease in speed, and Callum hoped the shepherds drove a little more considerately when their collies were sat on the back.

It wasn't long before he could see water ahead and from memory he knew the house wouldn't be far behind. At its head, Loch Socair flowed off into a reservoir upon the banks of which was built the Laird's house. One more twist in the road and, suddenly, there it was.

Fairholm House.

It was built on a rocky outcrop that was cut off from the rest of the land. It was turned into an island when the waters were high with the Spring thaw or after heavy rain. This was the home that was now Callum's. The view from this point was stunning. Mountains in the distance, in almost every direction, the waters still and sparkling in the sunlight. If you stood at the furthest edge of the rocks the vista included the rest of Loch Socair proper, giving another breathtaking view of the natural beauty of the area.

Access to the house was via an old stone bridge. A series of strong yet graceful arches carrying the road over the boggy mud that formed the bed of the loch and into the forecourt of the house. It was grand. There were no two ways about it. Built in the seventeenth century it definitely looked more like a castle or fortress than a family home, but then that had been its original purpose. A stronghold from which the family could defend their territory against the covetous eyes of neighbouring clans, and with so much freshwater within their borders, they had had to do so several times over the centuries.

Built of darkly coloured granite stone, the building didn't look overly welcoming. Small windows and large stones screamed of strength and defence, dark grey slate from local quarries covered the roves like a final layer of armour plating. Callum knew that inside things were very different.  

Stood before the imposing structure Callum suddenly felt as though he might have made a mistake in coming. This was all very real. Back in London, saying that he had family in the gentry and that there was a castle somewhere with his name on it worked as a rather effective pick up line with the ladies, when he chose to employ it. Here though, he felt very small, insignificant and rather out of his depth.

"You coming?" Hamish's voice broke through Callum's thoughts, making him look over to where the taller man was stood, his case in one hand and the other gesturing towards the simply enormous wooden doors that would grant them access.

"Yeah," Callum's eyes moved once more from the base of the outer walls to the tips of the stylised turret one of the higher towers. "Yeah, sure. Why not." His voice was quiet and hesitant and Hamish only just heard him

"Here we go then," With apparently no effort, Hamish single handedly pushed open the doors and the pair walked through.

"It...it hasn't changed at all." Callum's voice was suddenly filled with awe and that smile was back on his face again.

Walking through the large doors and the stone archway that housed them was like walking back in time and Callum felt a rush of emotions that was as powerful as it was unexpected. Hamish walked further into the courtyard that lay enclosed by the outer walls but Callum found himself lingering by the door. All of a sudden, it felt as it had done years and years before.