Later, she passed another house, but it was beyond the river and the railway and, although she noticed the trackways which opened off the road, she did not see the house.
Some miles further on she came into Tigh-Osda, at which the single-track railway terminated, and, except for a disfiguring new hydro-electric plant, the views for the rest of the way were superb. The long windings of the narrow road descended to a loch twelve miles long, guarded by grim mountains on the far side, partly wooded on the near side, islanded and tantalisingly beautiful. Laura drove slowly past it and although she still kept a wary eye on the road for approaching cars and passing-places, she managed to see enough of its loveliness to make her decide to come that way again at some time and enjoy it to the fall.
At Crioch, on the coast, she passed a post-office and wondered whether to stop and send her employer a card, but a glance at the clock on the dashboard suggested that it might be better to press on, for she had an invitation to lunch at Gàradh and did not want to be late.
From Crioch, through Baile (a tiny hamlet where fishermen lived) and all the way to Gàradh, the road ran along the coast. The day became warmer, the sun still shone and Laura was almost sorry when she reached the great gates of the Gàradh policies and realised that this was journey’s end. The gates were wide open, as though in hospitable welcome, and this impression was reinforced by the presence of her hostess waiting on the terrace to greet her.
‘So this is Gàradh,’ said Laura, when they had introduced themselves. ‘It’s indescribable. I expected something rather wonderful, but this beats anything I’d thought of.’
‘You shall see it all when you’ve had your lunch. Did you have a good journey?’ said her hostess, taking her into the house. ‘Lunch will come to the table as soon as you’re ready.’
Laura washed her hands and tidied her hair in a broad, low-ceilinged room to which Mrs Stewart showed her and from which a shy, smiling housemaid took her to the dining-room door. There was a fire in the room, Madeira wine on the enormous sideboard and a pleasant, homely atmosphere everywhere. Laura was very glad indeed that she had come.
After lunch there was a good cup of tea served in beautiful china and poured from a pot of Georgian silver. Tea, said her hostess, she greatly preferred to coffee after mid-day meals. After this they went into the grounds. From what she had seen when she had driven up to the house and while she had been standing beside Mrs Stewart for a moment or two on the terrace, Laura had realised that the policies were extensive, but she had not fully grasped what an acreage they must cover nor how truly superb were the seascapes and the natural scenery, even apart from the glories of the gardens themselves.
Across the sea-loch whose weedy tides slapped idly and in slow motion against the rocky walls rose the stern, dark outlines of the humped and massive Ben Caraid, and on the homeward side, running far out into the shallow water, was a long peninsula which formed part of the Gàradh estate. Gàradh was indeed a garden, a magnificent garden which had been contrived by the owner’s grandfather on what had once been barren, heartless sandstone and patches of sour peat.
It was not ordinarily particularly enjoyable to Laura to linger among the treasures of gardening fanatics or to listen with patient courtesy while these poured out, in considerable detail and even more Latin, a wealth of information about their insignificant-looking plants, but this occasion was different. In spite of the details and the Latin nomenclature, Laura enjoyed herself. The very extensive garden had been romantically conceived, for all the soil had been transported to it from far, far away, earth had been banked and trees grown to protect it, and, by the time Laura saw it, it was, in effect, a miniature Kew.
To her right, as she peered with well-simulated interest at Anacyclus Depressus, Cotoneaster Frigida Prostate, Leontopodium Alpinum and the rest of the fifty-nine species which the rock-garden had on display, were palm trees and an Australian tree fern, while in the opposite direction was a group of northern pines. Between the two lay the house, comfortable, large and built in Colonial style, to which they returned at half-past four to what Laura called ‘a real Edinburgh tea.’ After tea they went out again for the days were already long and the light good until late evening.
‘Come and see the rhododendrons,’ said Mrs Stewart. ‘Many are over, but we get some of them in flower, different species and hybrids, you know, from April almost until the autumn. We have some, indeed, which flower in February and March.’
They left the house, passed beside the rock garden which Laura had already seen and stood a while by the jetty and a small boat-house to look across the sea-loch to Ben Caraid’s formidable cliffs and shadowed corries.
‘It is a lovely place!’ said Laura. ‘I suppose it’s not really cold here, even in winter?’
‘The trees and the banks give a great deal of shelter, and the sea, this side, is warm, but we get snow, of course. I mind well – four years ago last Hogmanay it was – I had guests snowed up here for the best part of two weeks. Och, that was a time! My son’s friends, too, not folk of my own choosing. One of them was the laird of Tannasgan. Did you ever hear of Tannasgan?’
‘No, I never did. Is it far from here?’
‘Not so far. It’s a wee island in a loch, a piece east of Tigh-Osda, ay, and Freagair. You will have passed it on your way here. The laird is a strange body and has not a very good name in these parts, but my son had had businessdealings with him and invited him to stay a couple of nights to finish discussing the details. I did not take to the laird at all, and there was I stuck with the poor man for a fortnight!’
‘Talking of Freagair,’ said Laura, ‘if I’m to get there tonight I shall have to leave pretty soon, I’m afraid.’
‘Ay, you’ll not want to travel a single-track road in the dark. You’ll not change your mind and bide here the night?’
‘It’s very kind of you, but I booked a room, so I’d better get back, I think. I have enjoyed it here.’
‘You must persuade Dame Beatrice to bring you again before you both go back to London.’
‘I most certainly will.’
They strolled on, past flowering shrubs and then, taking a steep little side-path, came upon an enormous and impressive bare rock.
‘Torridon red sandstone,’ said Mrs Stewart. ‘If you’ll look that way across the bay you will see the Torridon mountains.’
They returned by a détour to the house to collect Laura’s bag and install her in the hired car. It was still broad daylight, but there was cloud coming up and Ben Caraid, never a friendly mountain, was looking ominous.
‘It’s going to rain,’ said Laura.
‘Ay, but you’ll be well on your way before that. I wish you had been able to see the herbaceous border at its best, but that’s not until July. The man I was telling you about, the laird of Tannasgan, gave me some rock plants, but I think it was my son’s idea that he should, for I don’t think the chiel would have thought of it for himself.’
They parted with thanks on the one side and a repetition of the invitation to ‘come again and bring Dame Beatrice with you’ on the other, and then Laura drove away from Gàradh and followed the only road, the coast road, back through Baile to the small resort of Crioch. Here she pulled in, got out of the car and took a stroll along the cliff-top. There were very few people about, although a hotel of moderate size faced the sea. The tide was out and the sands were wet and shining, broken here and there by seaweed-covered rocks humped like glistening saurians lazily washed by tiny waves. It was a charming place.
Out to sea, and barely visible except to those who, like Laura, knew it was there, lay the Hebridean island of Lewis and, south-west and a great deal nearer, she could see the unmistakable outline of the northern end of Skye. She would have liked to descend the cliff by the rough steps which led to the sands, but gathering cloud and a glance at her wristwatch warned her that time was pressing, so she returned to the car and drove inland towards the road which ran alongside the waters of Cóig Eich, the Loch of the Five Horses, claimed (locally) to be the loveliest in Scotland. The name and the claim she had received from Mrs Stewart.