A Summer Escape: Part 2
An erotic short story
Frustratingly we couldn’t get rid of Dave, Matthew’s workmate, that day. And even more frustratingly, the heatwave goes on and on and so does my house renovation, the soaring temperatures zapping the energy out of the builders until they grind to an almost complete halt.
Sitting in front of the fan in the one usable room in the house, my bedroom, I flick listlessly through photographs from last Summer. My campervan adventure around Scotland. As I gaze at ice cold lochs and windswept mountains, I have an idea.
36 hours later I am manoeuvring a hire car across the wild terrain of the Morvern peninsula, high on the West coast of Scotland. Far, far away from the heat of the cities, disconnected from the pressures of the online world. Finally, I can breathe.
My destination is still another ferry ride away, but I am going to stay overnight in the joyously remote village of Lochaline, promising seafood, stunning landscapes, and a bed for the night. Booking at very late notice, the only bed I could find was in a bunkhouse, a bit like a youth hostel. Not something I have tried before but needs must. Although a committed introvert, I am looking forward to meeting other travellers after a couple of days in the air-conditioned isolation of the car. I can always escape to my room with the bottle of whisky I’ve picked up en route. What could possibly go wrong?
After a hot shower and sending Patty a few selfies from the sunkissed terrace, I head into the bunkhouse to familiarise myself with the protocols of using the shared kitchen. It is full of men. Young men.
They don’t notice me at first as I survey the landscape. A sea of tattoos and testosterone, they banter amiably as they prep their suppers, roll their spliffs, share out beers from the fridge. Patty would call it a buffet. I call it a nightmare as I stand in the doorway, fiddling with my hair, still damp from my shower. No make up on. At least I am wearing a bra.
“You alright there? We’ll be out of your way in a minute,” says a man who looks like he just stepped off a Viking longboat. Tousled blonde hair, whirlpool blue eyes, tall and muscular, he taps a soft drumbeat on the worktop with his strong hands as he waits for the kettle to boil. “Tea?”
I stop fiddling with my hair, summon up my older woman confidence, and stride towards him.
“Great, thanks. Milk and one sugar. Please.”
“Yes ma’am.” He gives me a cheeky salute. “You got in today did you?”
I try to make my drive up from the humid South sound as interesting as possible, making him laugh with my hapless English escapades while navigating Scotland’s single track roads. His name is Sandy, a woodland ranger, supervising the gang of men still dominating the kitchen around us, born and bred in this wild landscape. They are rewilding the area by planting native trees, hundreds every day.
His girlfriend is studying at university in Glasgow.
Well, I do appreciate a man who acknowledges the woman in his life early on in a conversation.
I take my tea and perch at the breakfast bar amidst the tumult of testosterone. Over the next ten minutes I’m offered a spliff, a phone number, a chocolate biscuit, and a guided tour of the loch. I accept the last one, tagging along with a group of the guys who are fishing for their supper, rods and nets on their backs, spliffs behind their ears.
As we wind our way down to the rocky shoreline, I chat with Ally, another local guy, but his ancestors didn’t arrive on a Viking longboat unlike Sandy’s. Dark curly hair, dark eyes behind black framed glasses, cheeky grin, we’re almost the same height so I’m very aware of the amount of eye contact we are making as he tells me tales of salmon fishing with his Grandad.
He clearly loves the water, racing ahead as we break through the treeline and onto the rocks, a tattooed merman whipping off his T-shirt, shorts and shoes, whooping as the cold water hits his athletic body, now clad in only his boxers. I hesitate, trying to find the route he took across the slippery stones.
Suddenly a hand wraps around my waist and I find myself pressed against a tall, firm body.
“Careful how you go,” says Sandy as he guides me, stepping ahead, turning back to offer me his hand as he effortlessly straddles the rocks. I slide my hand into his, aiming to hold eye contact like I did with Ally, but his gaze is fixed on the path through to the water.
As he joins the others now casting their fishing rods into the water, I wonder what it would be like to ease off my T-shirt and shorts, have them all watch me as I glide my almost naked body into the loch, joining Ally, the gentle waves caressing my boobs, his gentle touch caressing my waist, finding my knickers, sliding his hand inside...
But that isn’t why any of us are here, and anyway, I can’t swim. So, I settle for throwing off my trainers and swearing involuntarily as I tentatively paddle up to my knees in the freezing water.
I find a secure spot for my feet, gazing up at the blue sky in this land of endless summer daylight, letting the waves soothe me, listening to the boys’ banter as they compare catches and unwind from their day’s labour.
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