It had started to rain, a fine, misty drizzle just this side of snow that seeped into her clothing and chilled her to the bone. Where was she? Kilchurn—the knowledge blossomed and she clung to it, an anchor in her swirling confusion. When was she? Ah, now that was the rub.
She stumbled through the empty ruins and found the spit of marshy land that connected the once-island to the loch shore. Later than the nineteenth century, at least.
The sound of voices caused her to turn. A group of brightly colored and heavily clothed tourists walked around the edge of the castle from the direction of the pier. She caught snatches of their conversation as they drew near.
"Her clothes—"
"She looks burned—"
"Miss? Miss! Are you all right?"
"The date, what is the date today?" she asked urgently.
They gave her odd, concerned looks but someone said "March first" in hesitant Gaelic and it was only then she realized her own question had been in Gaelic as well. She turned toward the sound of the voice.
"What year?" she asked, this time in English.
"Two thousand eight," said the voice.
"Oh, thank God." And she closed her eyes and fell blissfully unconscious.
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Crafts and Nature Photos and Michael Palin
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