The flyer heads northeast, skimming a few meters above the grey-blue sea, paralleling the coast that is just visible as a green breakline off to port. It's late afternoon, a clear day--rare for this time of year--and though the ocean below you is carrying only the slightest of chops, this flight just above the surface of the North Sea is incredibly exhilarating.
"Copy, Lion Forward. Buffalo Six-Six inbound direct in thirty." The copilot turns around and grins at you through the open doorway separating the flight deck from the transport compartment. "Your first trip out here?" he asks with a grin. You explain that while you've been to the estate before, this is your first time to ride in aboard one of the flyers. Usually, you take the shoreline road up from Inverness. This time, however, you found one of your host's men waiting at your hotel with an invitation to spend an extra night at the estate--and the flyer was waiting. So, instead of the drive up the coast, you set off with your escort and this flight crew, sliding smoothly out over Moray Firth, cutting over Dornoch Firth at Portmahomack, and now upward past Sarclet.
"Well, this is a good afternoon to make the trip. Last one we made," the copilot continues in that clipped idiom all of your host's men seem to adopt from time to time, "we hit a bruiser coming down from seaside. Man, that was a rough ride. You would've liked the way we bounced through that," he finishes with a trace of laughing regret. You glance down at the North Sea--calm today, almost friendly, but not really so--and think that, no, you really wouldn't have liked it.
The flyer suddenly swings in a smooth, broad turn to port. For an instant, all you can see through your window is water, and then the horizon is back where it should be. You have a glimpse of a spike of land rushing toward you along the port side, and then Castle Sinclair flashes underneath the flyer, the old battlements grey-white in the afternoon light. The flight crew is busy, now, the pilot keeping the flyer precisely on the track gleaming on his on-board displays, the copilot exchanging terse acknowledgments with whoever is guiding the craft toward the castle ahead.
The flyer flares, then settles smoothly. A soft thump and a brief, gentle rocking as the landing pads equalize tells you that you're back on terra firma. Your escort, the man who was waiting for you at the hotel, is already keying the side hatch open and a sudden rush of cool air nips your skin as it displaces the warmer air inside the passenger compartment. With a quick thank-you to your conductors, you step from the flyer onto the broad landing pad.
Your first view of the estate always does something to you. If you were a more emotional person, you'd describe it as taking your breath away. Not that the castle is overwhelmingly ornate. It's no Schloss Neuschwanstein. No, this old fortress was built long ago for utility, not as a decorative plaything for a mad Bavarian. But there is a . . . a steadfastness, a constancy to the estate that always gives you a momentary tightening in the chest. The old fortress emanates an impregnable, immutable air that is both awe-inspiring and very reassuring, the more so for its simple, unostentatious lines.
You catch sight of Cassius Booker heading toward one of the outbuildings. He returns your wave with a nod and a quick welcoming grin, then continues about his duties, his steps so measured and regular that the Sar-Major seems to march rather than walk. You'd like to talk to him now, but clearly he's at work and you know from experience that the Sar-Major's sense of duty is all-encompassing. Anyway, there will be plenty of time to renew your friendship at dinner tonight.
And others are waiting. A tall, thin, white-haired man in a trim suit nods, also smiling, at your approach. His name is Roth, and sometimes you get the feeling that the seemingly ageless butler was crafted out of the same stones as the castle's walls. That air of constancy surrounds and warms you once again.
"Welcome, sir," Roth says in that deep, even tone that seems to come from the very core of him. The smile and the handshake are firm and genuine. "The Laird will be very happy to see you. Will you come this way?" He indicates the way to the estate's main entrance.
Och, an' ye've found the way into me bonny world, hae'n't ye, fair traveler? Good for you! Well met, and welcome. I hope you enjoy these pages that tell you a little more about myself and my interests.
"Why 'Highlander's World'?" do you ask? I guess I should give you a word of explanation. No, I do not look like Adrian Paul (or even Christopher Lambert). And I'm not four hundred years old--although, I confess, there are days when I feel it. Like the wise man once said, it isn't the years, it's the mileage!
No, the "Highlander," which you'll also find on many of my e-mails, is in tribute to my Scottish heritage. In the manner typical of most generational expatriates (my mother's Scottish ancestors came to the New World in the18th Century; my father's, a hundred years or so later), we can trace lineage to several clans. MacDonald is the most determinative in my family's case.
I do play the bagpipes and I do own a claymore. Oh, and also a kilt.
As this part of my site grows, I plan to add several features about matters Scottish, ranging from family connections to matters of historical interest to ~ who knows? Perhaps culinary and libational tributes (an Ode to Haggis? How about reviews of my favorite Scotch whiskies and Scottish ales?).
In any event, I hope you enjoy your visit to Highlander's World. Here you'll find items of history, wine, music, literature . . . and I hope a few smiles here and there.