Fin led the way up the stairs, past the shack and along the white sand that lay at the feet of the tall, golden grass. The blades beat against me in rhythm with the wind as I trudged behind my guide. We meandered atop the sand dunes and tall grass for forty yards until we came to hard earth. Weeds, wild flowers, and small bushes held this domain, and our path guided us past these primitive plants lives and up a hill to a dark shadow in the distance.
The shadow was the promised house Fin had spoken about. It was a single story, thatched-roof cottage with a rough, mud-baked exterior. A few scraggly trees stood in the wild-grass yard and some bushes sat outside the door positioned on the right side of the building. There was a small paned windows on the left side of the door, and a cute stone walk led from our path to the door fifteen feet off.
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We bought two tickets, hopped aboard the train going to Oban and settled into a compartment.
“How far is Oban?” I asked him.
“Three hours, give or take,” he replied.
I glanced at my watch. It was noon. “So be at Oban by three and at the island by when?” I wondered.
“The trip across the water is a half hour, and there’s a mile walk to a house we can stay at,” he informed me. “I must warn you it is a little old and because of that very small.”