A Highland Christmas
Chapter One
More and more people each year are going abroad for Christmas. To
celebrate the season of goodwill towards men, British Airways slams
an extra one hundred and four pounds on each air ticket. But the
airports are still jammed.
For so many people are fleeing Christmas.
Fed up with the fact that commercial Christmas starts in October.
Fed up with carols. Dreading the arrival of Christmas cards from
people they have forgotten to send a card to. Unable to bear yet
another family get-together with Auntie Mary puking up in the corner
after sampling too much of the punch. You see at the airports the
triumphant glitter in the eyes of people who are leaving it all
behind, including the hundredth rerun of Miracle on 34th Street.
But in Lochdubh, in Sutherland, in the very far north of Scotland,
there is nothing to flee from. Christmas, thought Hamish Macbeth
gloomily, as he walked along the waterfront, his shoulders hunched
against a tearing wind, was not coming to Lochdubh this year any
more than it had come the previous years.
There was a strong Calvinist element in Lochdubh which frown ... read full excerpt from: A Highland Christmas ebook