"Yes. But I have to be back in Inverness Monday morning."
"Which gi'es us plenty o' time tae poison oor livers. First things first, ye'll need a bed." He reached behind his father's desk and grabbed a room key.
"True, I really didn't plan on staying, I wasn't even sure I'd find you. I left all my clothes back in Inverness."
"So ye'll borrow. Ye're stayin', an' that's a' there is tae it. Ye seem a bit stressed. First things first, we'll blow off some steam, jist like we used tae dae when we were laddies."
Before I could respond, True had me around the shoulders and was sweeping me out the door.
The ruins of Castle Urquhart stand on Strone Point, a rocky promontory set along the southern shores of Urquhart Bay, one of the deepest parts of the Loch. The castle's origins can be traced back to a Pict fort built in the fifth century, and it was there that Saint Columba, Abbot of Iona, first visited the Pictish Kingdom in A.D. 565.
Eight hundred years later, the English fortified the settlement, following Longshanks's victory over the Scots at Dunbar. William Wallace and Andrew Moray eventually attacked the castle, securing it for Scotland. Years later, another bloody siege ensued, with Longshank's invading army starving the Scot occupants into submission. The castle remained under England's control until Robert the Bruce retook it in 1306.
The Scots controlled the castle for the next four centuries, until the English used explosives to demolish most of the fortress in order to keep it out of the hands of the Jacobites.
What remains today of Urquhart Castle are the upper bailey, sections of its fortifying wall, and part of its five-storey tower house. While there are certainly more impressive structures along the Loch, none are as popular as this haunting castle ruins, surrounded on three sides by deep water known for its frequent Nessie sightings.
It was after ten and summer's dusk was nearly upon us, the mountains fading into rolling purple shadows, the bleeding scarlet horizon graying into night. True and I wandered along the perimeter of Urquhart Castle, each of us carrying a golf club and a small bucket of practice balls. Moving south along the grass-covered knoll, I paused to look down upon the steep twenty-foot drop on our left.
Below, a foreboding black surf rolled against the rocky vertical embankment, cloaking the Ness's extreme depths.
"This is where it must've happened," I said.
"Aye. It's a survivable fa' though, dependin' upon where he goes off. 'Course, he could have hit his head on one o' thae rocks, an' that wid have been that. Come on then."
True lead me to a hill that overlooked the castle parking lot. To the south was the lighted construction site of what would soon be Cialino's five-star resort. "Nice, huh? Fancy pools an' restaurants, an' a' its rooms wi' a Loch view. They're even sellin' time-shares, so I hear. Johnny C. would have made a killin' on that place if only he'd have lived tae see it."
"There's still the merry widow."
"Aye. From whit I hear, she gets everything. An' she's no' exactly hard on the eyes, yeah?" True removed a golf tee from his pocket, grabbed a ball from his bucket, then addressed the shot. "Okay, the construction fence's 220 yards, the patio's 227, the pool 235, an' if ye plunk it doon in the hot tub, ye automatically win. We'll start the pot at ten pounds an' raise it two pounds a shot."
I teed up to his left, giving those long arms of his plenty of space. "True, what did your father mean when he said those bastards are ruining the Great Glen?"
True swung, his ball soaring high over the construction fence, ricocheting off a bulldozer. "Forget my faither, he's strictly auld school. Alban MacDonald wid sooner bash a computer wi' a cricket bat than learn how tae use it. In my mind, it's plain hypocritical no tae encourage development. The auld Clans have aye held ontae the best acreage around Loch Ness, yer faither bein' among the first tae sell. More will follow, wait an' see. Go on then, take a swing."
I gripped the driver, took a few practice swings, then wound up and struck the ball, watching it rise, then curve left into Loch Ness.
"Jesus, Zack. My Auntie Griselda hits a better ball, an' she's doon tae one leg."
"Blow me." I teed another ball.
True hit his next shot, a line drive that disappeared over the bulldozer. "Ye heard they selt Aldourie Castle, aye? Word is some big firm's comin' in, convertin' the whole place intae an exclusive country club, sort o' like they did wi' Skibo. Figure one day I'll retire frae oil rig divin' an' get a job there as a golf pro."
"You'd make a better parking lot attendant." I hit another drive, this one skidding off the grass before hitting a rock and ricocheting into the water.
True grinned, then struck another ball, a moon shot that bounced twice off the brick balcony before plunking into the whirlpool. "Like I said, golf pro."
"Since when do golf pros wear ponytails?" I retorted, slicing yet another ball into the drink.
He fingered the thick lock of hair. "Dinnae knock my tail, it drives the birds right intae my bed. Go on, I'll gie ye one last shot tae tie or make it an even fourteen pounds, then we best be gettin' ower tae Sniddles. Brandy'll be waitin'."
I hit my final shot, which soared toward the heavens before banana-curving into Loch Ness. "I hate this flicking game," I said, threatening to toss my driver over the cliff.
"Temper, temper," True cooed, draping a burly arm across my shoulder. "See, when oor ancestors invented the bloody game, they understood two things. First, it takes exactly eighteen shots tae polish off a fifth o' a bottle o' Scotch, thus, a game o' golf equates tae eighteen holes. Second, yer game's ultimately a measurin' stick of how well ye deal wi' life's shits and giggles. Like yer game, yer life needs work."
"Okay, Mister Golf Pro, what's your advice?"
"That's easy. Any man who cannae keep his balls oot o' the water needs tae get laid. Come on, let's find my sister."
It was a Friday night and the club was packed, the tables filled with tourists, the bar four deep in regulars. There were darts and lager and music and lager and laughter… and did I mention lager?
True entered and the crowd was forced to part, me following in his wake. He shook a dozen hands and kissed a half dozen women, and I was thankful he didn't introduce me.
And then he waved to a raven-haired beauty who was waving back at us from a corner table, and I was smitten.
Claire MacDonald, who preferred her American middle name, Brandy (mostly to spite her father) was the kind of girl shy guys like me daydreamed about in high school and stayed up at night thinking about, but never had the nerve nor the credentials to ask out. These were girls reserved for the star quarterback and the guys who drove sports convertibles, and when they got older, they became trophy wives — arm-candy to the rich and powerful.
To me, Brandy was a swan, and I was a duck, and as a basic rule of nature, as my great uncle Alfred might have said, ducks and swans don't mate.
But in her own mind, Brandy was tarnished goods. When she was sixteen, her high school heartthrob had gotten her pregnant, right before his family abruptly relocated to Edinburgh. Old man MacDonald wasn't too keen about his daughter's obvious lack of celibacy and promptly threw her out of his house, forcing her to move into a shelter. Though she'd lost the child at the start of the second trimester and eventually returned to high school, Brandy was on her own, having never been invited back in her bitter father's home again.
At nineteen, Brandy met Jack Townson, an American stockbroker vacationing in Loch Ness. Seeing an opportunity to escape the Highlands, she returned with him to the States, and two months later they were married — more to spite her father than out of love.