Fiona MacBain's Blog

After my aborted attempt to camp at Sandwood Bay, I realised I didn’t want to spend hours lying in the dark in a tiny tent. So, if I wanted to continue camping in winter, I’d have to walk and pitch my tent in the dark.

A year ago I would have put that idea straight back in the box, but wild camping on my own over the last four months has helped me overcome my fear of the dark. There’s something calming and peaceful about night-time hiking.

I set off at 6pm from Burghead, on the Moray Coastal Trail, aiming to walk for a couple of hours towards Lossiemouth, then find somewhere to camp. Luckily there was a chippy at Hopeman, which saved me the bother of warming up a camping meal for myself. Also, it was delicious!

I had the most incredible luck – although it was a cold night, forecast for -3c, there was a clear sky and no wind, and the most beautiful golden moon I’d ever seen. I kept stumbling because I was staring at the moon instead of watching where I was walking. I didn’t have a tripod to get a decent photo of it on a 3 second exposure, so I clambered across the rocky shore, then bent over to rest my elbows on large rock, to try to hold my phone steady. I forgot I was carrying an 11kg rucksack, which had altered my centre of gravity, and I started to fall, first forwards, then overcompensating backwards until I landed on my back on the rocks. The rucksack saved me from any injury but I found myself stuck there on my back on the rucksack, my arms and legs flailing uselessly, like an upturned beetle. I was starting to panic by the time I managed to wrench myself back onto my feet.

As if the moon wasn’t excitement enough, I received a red aurora alert not long after setting off, and I also managed to get a good photo of that. What an experience. I was feeling pretty happy by the time I pitched my tent and got settled into my sleeping bag around 9.30pm, with two hot water bottles and a stick-on heat patch, ready for a chilly night.

Watching the moon shining on the sea from the cosiness of my -18C sleeping bag

I read for a bit, buried in the depths of my sleeping bag, then went outside to watch the moon and soak up the tranquillity of being on my own at the edge of the sea, darkness all around me. It was too cold to hang about for long, and by midnight I was asleep, waking briefly around 3am to rip the heat patch off my stomach as it was so hot, then around 5am, when I made a tiktok, which got 11,000+ views, then slept again until 6.30am, when I made another tiktok, which has since had almost 50,000 views. That’s a lot for me!

Morning coffee made with the JetboilFrosty tent at sunrise

The walk back to my car when the sun was rising around 9am was spectacularly beautiful and I felt very contented at how well the outing had gone, and how much I’d enjoyed it, despite the low temperature and long hours of darkness. I mean, if you have a sky full of stars, a bright golden moon, and a display of Northern Lights, what more could anyone want as entertainment?

Beautiful 6 mile walk back to my car at sunrise.

After a successful winter wild camp on my own at Slaggan Bay, I decide to endure the long drive to the very north west tip of the UK mainland to visit Sandwood Bay. I’ve wanted to go there for many years, having heard it described as Britain’s most beautiful beach. It has become increasingly popular in recent years, partly due to the North Coast 500 driving route which passes nearby, and I am keen to visit in winter when it will be quiet – and no ticks or midges.

It is mid-November, forecast to be 3c overnight, but the sun is shining in a pure blue sky when I walk the 4 miles across deserted landscape, past a couple of calm lochans. It is a stunning walk, and when I reach the beach, I am taken aback at how large it is, flanked by many metres of sand dunes. I arrive around 3pm, and spend a while wandering about near the water, enjoying the view. There are only two other people on the beach and they leave not long after I arrive. With the sun due to set around 4.30pm, I have this enormous, beautiful beach entirely to myself.

I soon realise there are very few grassy areas on which to pitch my tent, and the only place I can see, at the far northern end of the beach, would require me to cross a small, but deep, river. This would be no bother in summer, but there’s no way I’m going to attempt to paddle across in my bare feet in the cold, with my heavy pack likely to unbalance me on the slippery stones.

But I am keen to wake up with a view of the sea and the stone stack at the southern end of the beach, so I try to pitch my tent in the sand dunes. I’ve seen photos on facebook of people stacking rocks on top of their tent pegs or around the bottom of their tent, and I try that, carrying rocks from the stream to the dunes, but my tent is too small to have the rocks flattening the edges of it, and I have no confidence the rocks I am able to carry to my tent will be able to keep the pegs in the ground during the wind that is forecast overnight. I’m starting to panic a little as I take down and repack the tent – this is far from fun, as the tent is now full of sand and I probably only have half an hour of proper daylight left. Yikes.

Failed attempt to pitch my tent on sand

I trail back through the sand dunes to try to find some hard ground for my tent, but as soon as I get back onto solid ground, I realise there is what I think is sheep poo everywhere (I did wonder why there was so much sheep poo but not a sheep in sight, and discovered later it was deer poo. Imagine being woken in the middle of the night in a tiny tent on a remote hill, surrounded by deer!). The droppings are all over every bit of suitable ground, of which there isn’t much because a lot of the terrain is springy heather. I didn’t do enough research! But I climb to the top of a small hillock, which has a spectacular view of the bay, and decide I’ll just have to camp on top of all the poo, bleuch.

If you zoom in you can see all the deer droppings, arrggghh!

Once I’ve got my stuff set up, I fill the jetboil with water from a nearby stream, which I would definitely NOT drink, even with a filter, due to all the animal droppings everywhere, but I use the water to boil my ready-made camping meal pouch in (Wayfayer’s chilli and rice – it was delicious as I was ravenous by then), then I use the same water to fill my hot water bottle and warm up my sleeping bag.

It’s around 4.30pm and, before it gets properly dark, I wander to the water’s edge, back down through the dunes at the southern edge of the beach, which tower above my head in a landscape that seems straight from a science fiction film. The beach feels cold as the light fades from the sky, and I am conscious of the isolation, something about being so far north, and so far away from any other human being. I welcome the novel experience but am feeling lonely at the prospect of the long evening ahead.

Back in the tent, my sleeping bag is cosy from the hot water bottle, and by 5.30pm I have changed into my merino wool sleeping gear, and am snuggled inside my bag. Thankfully there is phone signal, so I can text my mum and my good friend, Sarah, but that somehow makes me feel even more lonely. I don’t feel like reading, and the forecast for the morning has changed from sunny to heavy rain (the joys of Scottish weather), and by 6pm I decide I don’t want to lie there for several more hours, then pack up in freezing torrential rain in the morning.

I struggle back into my outdoor clothes, back up my tent by the light of my head torch, and set off on the 4-mile trail back to my car, now in pitch darkness. A few months ago I would have been scared, but I’ve already forced myself to walk through woods in the dark and this is nowhere near as scary. The path is excellent, thanks to the John Muir Trust (to whom I made a small donation in gratitude for the good path and the public toilets at the car park), and when I stop to switch my headtorch off, the night sky is an astonishing display of stars, and I feel like I’m looking into the universe above me. It reminds me how insignificant I am, and I like that feeling. It makes my own troubles seem less important.

It takes me an hour and a half to walk the four miles back to my car, and I’m surprised that I actually enjoy it. My mud-covered boots tell me a need a much brighter headtorch, as I step in several unexpected patches of muddy bog, but I decide that if I want to continue winter camping – and I do – then I’ll incorporate walking in the dark into the trip. What I don’t want to do is lie for hours in a tiny tent with nothing to do but read. If I’m going to read, I may as well lie in my comfortable bed at home. What I’m looking for from camping is a physical challenge and an adventure. Head torch shopping it is!  

Armed with my new -18c sleeping bag, and a cold but sunny weather forecast, I drive for two hours to the north west coast of Scotland, then follow a 5km trail to a remote beach, Slaggan Bay. Gorgeous desolate scenery on the way there, and my first glimpse of the beach makes me feel so happy – it is deserted, the view is stunning, and there is plenty of flat ground at the edge of the beach for my tent. It couldn’t be better.

Actually, there is one drawback to this particular camping spot – once I’ve set up my tent I realise there is no phone signal or 4G. Yikes. That’s quite a thought. It’ll be dark from 5pm, so that’s a long evening out of contact with anyone and without social media. Not to mention the ability to call for help. But there is no way I’m going to move my tent and, even if I was inclined, a quick wander about the beach makes me realise there is no signal anywhere unless I climb back up the cliffs that surround the beach. Oh well.

I have about an hour before the sun will set so I trustingly leave all my expensive kit in the tent and head north to explore the cliffs. More stunning views and a short adrenaline rush as I make my way over rocks to take a photo and video clip of a fissure in the rocks which is being violently assaulted by the sea. The forces of nature are amazing. Thankfully I don’t fall in and die, but make it back ‘home’, where I make some supernoodles for my tea and feast my eyes on the beautiful glow of the sun setting.

After my gourmet meal, I wander about the beach until it’s completely dark, then heat some water from a nearby stream with my jetboil, fill my empty water bottle, then pop it into my sleeping bag to warm it up. Around 5.30pm I film a short clip for Tiktok (which ends up being my most successful Tiktok ever, with 126k views and almost 600 comments at the time of writing), although I can’t post it immediately. For one thing, I would never post my location in real time on social media, especially when on my own and feeling a touch vulnerable. And also because I have no access to the internet or any form of communication with anyone. This is alarming, as I am somewhat addicted to my phone, but that’s one of the reasons I feel that a trip like this is good for my soul. I’m reconnecting with my younger self, who went solo-travelling pre-internet and pre-mobile phones, and loved it. One of the main reasons I enjoy wild camping in remote places is the sense of getting away from everything, and being alone in the natural world. It’s time away from the troubles of life.

I get into my sleeping bag and read (Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry) for three hours, then pop out of the tent to pee before going to sleep. The sky is clear and filled with stars. I’m wandering about near my tent, wearing my merino wool long johns and top, my bare feet in my unlaced boots, staring up at the beautiful star-filled sky. Nothing can beat this.

I use the jetboil to reheat the water that’s warming my sleeping bag and am amazed to sleep from 9pm until 7am, waking for a while around 5am when a heavy downpour makes a thunderous noise . The feeling of being so cosy in my sleeping bag while listening to the rain on the tent and the waves crashing on the nearby shore is just fantastic.

It’s cold damp morning, and getting out of my warm cocoon is uncomfortable, but by the time I’ve made some porridge and packed up, the sun is rising as I heave my rucksack onto my shoulders and set off back to my car.

I already know from my research that wild camping is all about having the right equipment, but I haven’t properly thought through how I handle the cold. It’s September, my inflatable sleeping mat is recommended for 3 seasons, my sleeping bag has a comfort zone of 2-7c, and the forecast is for 6c overnight, when I set off to tackle the 38 mile walk on the South Loch Ness Trail from Inverness to Fort Augustus. It doesn’t occur to me that the sleeping bag that is recommended for 2-7c had suited me when it was 16c overnight. What an idiot.

Caught in a downpour on the flooded path between Inverness and Dores

I leave Inverness after work on Friday, around 6pm, and my path follows the River Ness until it flows into Loch Ness. As I pass the beautiful Aldourie Castle, the heavens open, and I have to pause to put on my waterproofs and cover my rucksack, before carrying on into woods as darkness falls. It’s not exactly relaxing to be walking through the woods in the dark, but I’m pleased I’ve overcome my lifelong fear, and although unable to completely shake intrusive thoughts about serial killers and monsters, I curb the urge to carry my vicious looking tent peg mallet in my hand. It might make me feel safer to have a weapon, but I imagine any serious attacker would most likely just grab it from me and use it against me. I remind myself that just as I am mostly scared of coming across a strange solitary person wandering in the dark on their own, perhaps anyone catching sight of me will be equally terrified. However the dense darkness beneath the trees is difficult to ignore, and I’m relieved when I arrive at my camping spot by Dores Beach, overlooking Loch Ness, 7 miles into the trip.

Pitched my tent in the dark!

It’s a popular spot, and I hope there is nothing unsavoury on the ground under my tent as I pitch it with the use of my headtorch. I keep misplacing things in the dark, the ground is soaking due to the heavy showers earlier that evening, and my hands are getting cold as the temperature drops. By 9pm, I’m in the tiny tent with my wet rucksack, boots and jacket, changed into my merino wool leggings and top, trying to get warm in my sleeping bag. I ought to make a hot drink with the jetboil but I’m too cold to get out of the sleeping bag. I decide to try to sleep and get up early to continue the walk.

Twenty minutes later, I’m still shivering, so I put on a jumper, fleece, woolly hat and gloves, then pull the sleeping bag right over my head, until only my mouth and nose are visible, and I lie there, feeling chilled and trying to sleep. It’s very uncomfortable, but I can’t move because every time I do, I feel cold air drift into the sleeping bag. This isn’t much fun!

Trying to sleep despite feeling chilled

The other problem with camping in such a popular spot for walking is that I’ve not long drifted asleep, when I’m woken by footsteps and a torch being shone onto the tent.  I lie there, listening for the footsteps going away, and imagining someone standing right outside my tent. I feel I ought to prepare myself for this eventuality – thinking of a weapon, or at least switching my phone on, but I’m so cold I don’t want to risk letting air into the sleeping bag, so I lie there, hoping it was just a dog walker who was walking past. About an hour later, I hear more footsteps, and this time I hear and male and female voice discussing the beautiful night sky. It sounds like they are right outside my tent but can only imagine they haven’t noticed the tent as they stand for what feels like an age having a romantic conversation that is quite grim to listen to. I’m close to shouting, ‘Oi, some people around here are trying to sleep, you know!’, but thankfully they move away. This is not a good choice of camping spot!

To my surprise I sleep until 6am, but am chilled to the bone as I heat up water for my porridge. I pack up the soaking tent and set off wearing all the clothes I have with me. It takes an hour of brisk walking with my heavy pack before I start to warm up. I pause to make myself a cappuccino and eat a graze bar, then plod onwards contemplating two problems – although the temperature is forecast to be less cold this evening, I can’t bear the thought of another night feeling that cold, and as my tummy growls, I realise I am woefully ill-prepared with food.

I plod along for several hours and am delighted to find the café at Foyers open. I DEVOUR a toastie and coffee. Man, it’s good. Someone tells me that although the forecast for the general area had been 6c last night, it had been closer to zero by the lochside – no wonder I had been so cold.

Unable to face another night like that, I catch a bus back to Inverness – I’ll finish the trail next year or after I’ve bought myself a much warmer sleeping bag.

Day One

The weather forecast was exceptional for Scotland in early September. It was time for my first proper solo walk and wild camp, something I’ve dreamt of doing for many years.

I arrive in Cullen by bus at 7.30pm, and began the expedition with a white pudding supper from Linda’s chippie, which I eat overlooking the pretty harbour. By 8pm I am trudging along the beach, feeling trepidatious about my ability to carry the weight of the rucksack (11.3kg with two bottles of water, 9.6kg without the water) for three days and for 32 miles.

There are various groups of young folk on the beach, having Friday evening fun, including a group of four young men, who I see heading into a cave, beers in hand, at the far end of the beach, very close to where I intend to camp. This makes my vague worries about being alone in the dark crystalise into a more specific and realistic fear of a group of drunk lads. I pass the cave and carry on to the next small cove, hoping none of them will venture that far. I can’t back out of this trip now, and even if I wanted to, I’ve missed the last bus and my car is many miles away at the other end of the trail. I carry on pitching my wee tent with my fingers crossed.

It’s soon getting dark, but still mild, so I make myself a hot chocolate with the Jetboil and drink it as I sit half-in half out of my tiny tent, reading on my kindle, though distracted by the beautiful view across the bay to the lights of Cullen.  

Insomnia is often my night-time companion, so to ensure I was exhausted, I had woken myself at 4am that morning, and gone for a 7 mile run before work. It worked! I got into my sleeping bag around 10pm, and apart from waking to turn over a couple of times, I slept through to 6am, which is unusual for me. Maybe the famous sea air. I made instant porridge then packed up and set off, feeling happy that the first night had passed without incident.

No shower but I did brush my teeth!Breakfast

Day Two

I realise that I have camped only metres from the cliffs overlooking Bow Fiddle Rock, spectacular in the morning sun, the sea glistening around it, and I march past, surprised the rucksack feels so comfortable on my back. I walk at a good pace all morning, stopping briefly in the pretty fishing village of Portknockie to ask a woman in a garden if she’d refill my two water bottles for me. It is around 10am, the sun is getting hot, and when I tell her I am walking all the way to Lossiemouth, she tells me it would be a lot quicker by bus, and that the bus stop is just around the corner. It’s tempting!

Early morning on the beautiful Moray coast

I walk on to the next village, Findochty, and am relieved to find public toilets – this will save me using my specially purchased wild camping trowel! They are old-style public toilets with white tiling and fully enclosed cubicles which are extremely narrow. I don’t want to leave my pack outside, and also don’t want to lay it on the floor of the toilets (bleuch), so I wear it into the cubicle and get stuck for a short while as I try to squeeze back out, wedged half in-half out, unable to move for a few stressful moments. I feel like a crab when someone has its shell gripped between thumb and forefinger and it is flailing its legs uselessly.

I am aiming to get to Buckie by lunchtime, but arrive at 11am and find a café with electric sockets by each table, so I have a coffee, a large glass of water, some electricity, and fill a few pages of my ‘wild camping notebook’, while waiting for them to start serving lunch at noon, when I have scotch pie, beans and chips. Man, that hits the spot!

Fuel for my phoneFuel for me

My phone and I both refuelled, I purchase two litres of water, drink one (which is painful on a full stomach but it’s easier to carry in my tummy than on my back), and use the other to refill my water bottles, then trudge onwards in 27C heat for almost four hours, partly by the coast, and partly through pretty woodland. I’m drenched in sweat and starting to feel weary when I get to Spey Bay, and am delighted to discover the Dolphin Café at the mouth of the river, where I order a slice of coconut and lime cake and a glass of chilled sparkling water. I have a chat with two old men, one of whom tells me he is 88, and asks if I’d like to go on a cruise with him.  It’s around 4.30pm by then, and I have a dilemma – it’s a little early to set up camp for the night, but it’s a looooong way to Lossiemouth (10 more miles). However, I decide to carry on, and see how far I get. I can stop and camp anywhere, right? That’s the whole point.

Best cake ever!

The path crosses the Spey on a disused railway bridge, then returns to the coast. I pass a trail marker around 5.30pm that tells me it’s 8 miles to Lossiemouth, and I carry on, feeling mildly ill at ease for a variety of reasons: it’s been over 10 hours since I set off that morning, 8 of which have been on the move, and I’m starting to feel the pack sitting heavy on my hips. I’ll go so far as to say I am now in pain. There is nothing stretching ahead of me but shore and forest, and a line of World War 2 concrete tank traps. It is relentless. The path runs on top of loose shingle much of the time so it is uncomfortable and slow to walk on, and after over an hour and a half of walking, I pass a trail marker that says 4 more miles to Lossiemouth. By this time, the pain in my hips has increased significantly, and dusk is approaching, so I find a place to pitch my tent at the edge of the forest (I have no choice because the ground elsewhere is too stony).

The long lonely shore toward Lossiemouth as the sun sets

Within half an hour I’ve set up camp, and am sitting on a washed up log by the sea eating instant noodles. They are revolting. Desert is two paracetamol, two ibuprofen, and one sleepeasy tablet, washed down with lukewarm water. I have walked around 21 miles today and since taking my rucksack off, large red swellings have developed on my hips and they are sore to touch. My whole body aches and I feel anxious I won’t be able to move in the morning. The isolation starts to prey on my mind and I feel lonely, and filthy from having sweated all day. I’m also exhausted and it’s getting dark, so I get into the tent and close the flap to keep the midges out, the heat becoming intense as I lie on top of my sleeping bag, wearing nowt but my knickers, wondering what on earth I am doing there.

Dinner of revolting noodles with lukewarm waterbed for the the night

I’m woken from a light doze by the sound of male voices near the tent and am immediately on high alert. It’s dark, I’m miles from anywhere, and I haven’t met another soul during the two hours it took me to walk to this isolated stretch of shoreline. In my panic I don’t know what to do first – get dressed, switch my phone on, or grab my tent peg mallet to protect myself.  As I lie there completely still, doing none of those things except listening, the voices move off and then disappear. Just a group of walkers on the trail. They probably didn’t even notice my wee tent hidden at the edge of the woods.

Ready to scare away any attackers!

The fright, the pain in my hips, and the exhaustion, get the better of me and I have a small breakdown. I don’t want to be there anymore. I fall asleep vowing to sell the goddamn tent and never go camping again.

Around 2am my bladder wakes me up; such irony when I had not been able to drink much in the evening as I was preserving water for the morning. I crawl out of the tent to pee, and – wow. I stand there with my jaw hanging open. There’s not a cloud above me, and the night sky is astonishing. The sheer number of stars that are visible is indescribable. I feel like I’m floating in the universe. Time passes as I stand there, in nothing but my pants, soaking it all in. This is what I am here for! To enjoy the startling beauty of the natural world, far from other people. It’s magic. Maybe I’ll keep the tent after all.

Sunrise – I survive the night and can still move!

Day Three

I wake around 6.30am and am relieved to find my body still seems to be working. I lie for a while enjoying the comfy feeling inside the sleeping bag, then unzip the door to see the early morning sun rising in the sky. There isn’t a trace of another person as far as they eye can see in both directions, it’s already warm, and I feel surprisingly well rested, so I clamber over the mound of shingle to the water’s edge, and cautiously enter the water. It’s cold, but pleasant on my skin as I’ve felt sticky and grubby all night. I’m too nervous to swim as the shore falls away sharply and I’m worried about being unable to climb back out as the shingle is steep, loose and slippery. But I manage to give myself a decent wash and feel refreshed. Once I’ve dried off in the sun, I use the last of my water to make instant porridge, then pack up and set off towards Lossiemouth.

Morning bath!Drying off in the morning sunLooking back towards Spey Bay as I head towards Lossiemouth

I walk for an hour and a half, then go straight to a café, badly in need of a strong coffee and a pint of water. The café’s large terrace is full of people enjoying breakfast in the morning sun but I sit alone in the gloomy interior – I need a break from the glare of the sun and, most importantly, some electricity for my phone. I order a sausage and egg roll and I devour it inelegantly while I decide what to do next.

In a way I’m at my final destination – Lossiemouth. I had never intended to walk the entire trail on this trip, and I’ve got here a lot faster that I’d intended. I could continue on the trail, but would end up in Hopeman or Burghead, and there doesn’t seem to be buses from either of those places on a Sunday, which is the following day. Or I could go home. But I am not ready to do that. The weather is terrific, and I am delighted I don’t feel too dreadful after the long walk the previous day, so I take a bus to Elgin, collect my car, buy some more food in Marks and Spencer, then drive to Hopeman, and set off on the trail, this time towards Lossiemouth from the other side.

Salad and prawns overlooking Hopeman beach

The clifftop path is rugged, and the view out to sea, as well as down into secluded sandy coves, some of which have caves and sea stacks, is beautiful. For years I’ve dreamt of sleeping in the tent overlooking the sea, and now is my chance. I find the perfect spot.

By the time my tent is set up, it’s around 5pm, and I take my valuables with me to the deserted sandy beach that is only about 50m away. I wander in my bare feet for a while, then venture into the sea. It takes me a while to get properly into the cold water, but once used to it, I swim for twenty minutes. For many years, I’ve felt too delicate to venture into the sea to swim, but the success of the wild camping has made me feel more robust, and I’m so pleased with myself to be able to enjoy a bit of wild swimming as well.

After a swim at Covesea beach

I return to my tent dripping wet, and as the sun is shining into the entrance, which is sheltered from the path, I lie naked on my sleeping bag to dry off. My body feels well exercised, and the sun on my skin feels warm and rejuvenating. As the sun sets I make myself a hot chocolate, then later crack open a mini bottle of red wine as I eat a crusty roll and wedge of brie. It’s a warm evening, and the sea breeze means there are no bugs, so I lie in my sleeping bag with the tent flaps open until after 10pm, watching darkness descend, listening to the waves crashing on the rocks and the seabirds yelling at one another. It feels like paradise.

The next morning, my hopes of watching the sun rise over the sea are scuppered as I wake to heavy rain hammering against the tent. I’ve never felt so cosy in my life as I lie in the sleeping bag, in no hurry to get up. When I eventually decide it’s time to end this break from reality, I roll up the mat and sleeping bag inside the tent, then quickly take down the soaked tent, glad to be heading home for a much-needed shower.  

Watching the rain from my sleeping bag – time to go home!

This expedition has been a physical and mental challenge, and the realisation of a long held dream. I am looking forward to the next time.

Previous post: Facing Fears

For years I’ve dreamed about wild camping. The sense of getting away from it all, being closer to nature, the physical challenge, and overcoming my fear of the dark. The latter issue is significant. I suppose we are all scared of the dark to a certain extent but as I make my way through my fifty-third year of life, I decide to properly question myself on why I am scared of the dark:

I don’t believe in ghosts, ghouls, zombies, and all that stuff that came from watching too many horror films as a teenager.I do believe in rapists and serial killers, however they are unlikely to be lurking in the remote corners of Scotland where I intend to hike and camp. I mean, it’s possible. But unlikely.I dislike everything irrational. And my fear is irrational, so it’s time to deal with it.

I start reading articles about appropriate equipment and learn that when it comes to carrying camping gear on your back, it’s all about the weight. And ‘light’ ain’t cheap. But I am desperate to give this a try, so the next thing I know I’m shelling out £500 on a Vango one-man tent (1.7kg), a Mountain Warehouse lightweight down sleeping bag (0.8kg), a Thermarest inflatable camping mat (0.54kg), an Osprey Renn ‘woman’s fit’ rucksack (1.6kg), and a Jetboil stove (0.24kg). I am READY!

First up, a practice overnight stay, a ten-mile drive from my home, and a one-mile walk from my car. Easy and safe, I hope. I set off at 7:30 p.m., find a great spot on the shore of Loch Ness, and by 8:30 p.m., I have set everything up. This is fine, I think, sitting in my tiny tent, my head pressed against the roof, trying to quell the claustrophobia when I close the tent flaps to keep the insects out.

As close to the loch as I can get because of the stones

I had dreamt of sitting by the loch eating a continental dinner of bread, brie, salami and red wine, but as I drag my rucksack towards me to retrieve the squashed food, I feel the expensive inflatable camping mat deflate and my bum land on the cold, hard ground. I am aghast to discover a 0.5cm rip. Even more upset when I remember that it had come with puncture repair kit… which I have left at home. I feel sick with annoyance at my stupidity.

Everything I’d read about wild camping had stressed the importance of having a decent camping mat to protect you from the ground so, although it was getting dark, I decide to return to my car and drive the ten miles home to get the repair kit. You can imagine my joy.

Loch Ness at dusk, heading back to my car

By the time I get back, it is 9.30pm and pitch dark. I mean properly ‘can’t even see a metre in front of you dark’. I am basically walking through the set of a horror-movie. On my own. I don’t want to put my headtorch on because then ‘they’ will be able to see me, but I can’t navigate without it, so I illuminate the area in front of me and carry on, reminding myself of the three bullet points I wrote above, but clutching my tent peg mallet in my hand, brief visions of scenes from The Walking Dead flashing though my mind.

Everything looks different in the dark, so it takes me a while to locate my tent. But as I stumble over heather and brush past prickly gorse bushes in the deep, dark woods, something remarkable happens…I get used to it. Nobody murders me, nothing awful happens, it isn’t that bad. I’m not joking when I say this is a revelation. I’m not scared anymore.

Found my tent again!

What I am, by then, is extremely hungry, and once I’ve spent 20 minutes awkwardly crouched in the tent fixing the puncture, then reinflating the mat, by the light from my headtorch, I am surrounded by bugs. Flying ones and crawling ones. So I close the tent flaps and do my best to deal with the beasties that are inside, then crack open my red wine, cheese and salami, all of which I down as fast as I can, all thoughts of a solitary but romantic open-air dinner abandoned.

It is a warm evening, and after all my exertions in the woods, and having worn far too many layers from fear of being cold, I sit in the tent sweating, feeling claustrophobic and a bit nauseous from the wine and the smell of the cheese and salami.

I get into my sleeping bag fully clothed then, ten minutes later, struggle back out of it to strip down to my knickers and a T-shirt, barely able to comprehend how a tent could be so warm. Despite something making a loud screeching noise outside, I manage to drift off, but am woken by my bladder around midnight. I lie there, willing myself to go back to sleep. But it isn’t happening, so I unzip the tent flaps, put my feet into my shoes, my headtorch around my forehead, and stumble outside to find somewhere to pee. I feel vulnerable crouching by a tree in the dark, and I am glancing from side to side, watching out for I-don’t-know-what, so I pee on my shoes in my hurry to get this done and get back to the perceived safety of the tent. But once I stand up, I realise what a beautiful, tranquil evening it is. The only sound I can hear is the gentle lapping of water against the shore. In for a penny, in for a pound, I think, I am here to face my fears, so I set off through the trees to the water’s edge. On the northern shore of Loch Ness I can see a couple of distant lights, but straight ahead and to the south is dense blackness. Rather than feeling afraid, I am oddly calm, so I sit on a rock for a few minutes, the air pleasantly cool on my skin, enjoying the sense of isolation from the world. It’s amazing.

When I eventually return to my tent, to my astonishment I sleep soundly until around 7am, when I use my new jetboil to make a cappuccino, and drink it in the morning sunshine, feeling an immense sense of achievement and happiness. Wild camping is all right!

Beautiful Loch Ness

10 years of facebook posts about the battles, sorry I mean delights, of raising 2 boys…

24 Nov 2010 (age 1 & 2)

Andrew’s lesson for today: don’t use Robert’s potty as a hat when you don’t like getting your hair shampooed.

6 July 2011 (age 2 & 3)

A bit of muffin caught in Andrew’s throat in Starbucks causing projectile vomiting that would have got him a part in the Exorcist. Robert used this distraction as an opportunity to try to get into the lift by himself, while I raced across the coffee shop to grab him, shrieking ‘noooooo’, Andrew under one arm dripping regurgitated milk everywhere. Much staring from other customers. Don’t think we’ll venture back for quite some time.

25 May 2012 (ages 3 & 4)

Andrew has broken Robert’s lentil shaker, and there are lentils strewn all around the house. Robert and I are both crying about it, but for different reasons.

26 July 2013 (ages 4 & 5)

It’s a rare occurrence, but I decided to paint my nails in the sunshine in the garden while the children played. In the ten minutes in which I warned R and A that I was unavailable due to drying time (ten minutes, that’s all), they both hurt themselves dragging their bikes out of the shed, had a fight over one of the bikes, then A fell in a puddle, cried for dry trousers, then cried because I said he’d have to get them himself, then cried because he couldn’t get them on, or his shoes, then because R had nicked his bike. Then R fell off his bike and started crying. Then A pooped and needed a wiper. Ruined nails. Waste of time. Plus I got a nasty look from someone walking past our fence as I told my wailing child who was sprawled on the ground that I couldn’t help them as my nails were drying.

8 November 2014 (ages 5 & 6)

Watching my child misbehaving at swimming lessons – trying to catch their eye and transmit my fury across the pool. It’s not working. I’m so glad I’m not a swimming instructor! Afterwards the child’s explanation was: ‘I wanted to behave but there wasn’t enough time.’

12 April 2015 (ages 6 & 7)

Sometimes things work out exactly as you anticipated. Your expectations are met in their entirety. There have been 2 bottles of juice left in the fridge for some time, one larger than the other, and I have not offered them for fear of fighting. How ridiculous, I thought this morning, and took them for after swimming. But, as I anticipated and expected, an enormous squabble broke out over who would get the larger bottle. Then, when I lost my rag and ranted somewhat about the importance of being polite and reasonable, an even bigger fight started over who would take the smaller bottle. The final solution involved me drinking some of the juice from the larger bottle to ensure both of them had equal amounts of juice, and not a millilitre more or less than the other. FFS.

2 May 2016 (ages 7 & 8)

Andrew thought I was telling him that a secret agent was reading my book. No, son, a LITERARY agent! A little agent? No, a literary… actually never mind. Yes, a secret agent.

26 May 2017 (ages 8 & 9)

Pre-school negotiations that leave me feeling drained before the day has even properly started…

Can’t decide which book to take (the one you’re reading atm?)

Socks that ‘don’t feel right’ (they’re the same ones you wear every day)

Doesn’t want to wear sun cream that’s blue (it’s not blue when it’s on you)

There’s a bit of mud at the bottom of his trousers (a small quantity of mud is no reason IMHO to require a fresh pair, there has to be at least 33% mud coverage before I will change ’em)

Can’t find the fidget spinner (FFS)

Wants to know what’s in packed lunch (no, because you’ll complain about it and I’m not changing it, you’ll just have to enjoy the surprise at lunchtime)

Announces he’s going to a friend’s house after school as he leaves the house at 8.55 (Hang on…!)

It’s now 9am, they are gone, and I am breathing a sigh of relief…

16 June 2018 (ages 9 & 10)

Child: did you know you can {insert random Fortnite fact}?

Me, interrupting: remember I said you weren’t allowed to talk about games today?

Child: can I talk about chess?

Me: ok then

Child: but chess is a game

Me: it’s not electronic

Child: so you’re saying you don’t like electricity?

Me: no, that’s not what I mea-

Child: and chess is electronic. I got it from the app store

Me: so then we aren’t going to talk about that either.

Child: what about sumdog? That’s educational, we play it at school, can I talk about that?

Me: no.

Child: PowerPoint?

Me: *sigh* ok then, what do you what to say about PowerPoint?

Child: I made some slides about Fortnite

2 February 2019 (ages 10 & 11)

When your kids are supposed to be getting dressed because we’re going to be late for swimming lessons, and they’re not allowed to bounce on the new beds, and you can hear them bouncing and not getting dressed, then there’s a massive crash and one of them starts crying and you think, good I hope that hurt!

22 April 2019 (ages 10 & 11)

Child: mum, what’s a dildo?

Me: *explains what it is*

Child, covering ears in horror: I’m only ELEVEN! How can you tell me something like that?

If you’re gonna ask…

And on we go into puberty…

(Bonus points if you’ve got this far and realised it was actually 11 posts, couldn’t resist adding that last one)

And if you are still here and interested in my books, they are both available here: https://amzn.to/2LcBLyL

SPECIAL OFFER 9-16 JULY 2019 – EBOOKS ONLY 99P!

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Chapter One – MEGAN

Friday, 6 May 2005, 10.30pm

Megan was drinking beer in the kitchen with a few friends when her collie, Glen, ran through the open back door with a muddy stick in his mouth. When he dropped it at her feet, she stared in disgust. It wasn’t a stick; it was a bone, with dried-out flesh faintly discernible beneath the dirt that clung to it.

Revolted, she steeled herself to lift it, grimacing at its cold dampness. She went to the door to hurl it back outside but paused, puzzled. It was a pretty big bone.

With a mix of curiosity and dread, Megan followed the dog across the overgrown garden to the hole where the septic tank had been removed earlier that day. In the meagre light from the kitchen window, she spotted more bones in the dark pit. It looked like a skeleton.

Pushing her dog out of the way when he tried to pull the bone from her, Megan leant into the hole and prodded the earth with it. A glint of gold caught her eye and she bent to pick up the object. It was a man’s ring… a familiar ring. Her heart started to thump.

The shock of who this might be and how his remains had come to be there was immense. She must be mistaken. She’d have to take a closer look. First, her visitors would have to be sent home.

She hurried back into the house. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to her small gathering of friends. ‘I’m knackered and the boys will be up early. I better get to bed.’The handful of folk from the Glasdrum Hill Runners Club made a few token grumbles but were mainly relieved. They were people who rose at five in the morning to run up mountains and they’d already had a few drinks at the Taj Mahal on the High Street, celebrating their success in the cross-country district championships. They were out the door in no time.

Megan stared out of the kitchen window towards the back garden. Jim must have unearthed the bones when he’d removed the old tank earlier that day, no doubt too pissed to notice he’d dug up a dead body.

Megan’s friend, Vicky, who had been babysitting Megan’s three boys while she had been out with the hill runners, came up behind her. ‘Are you wondering what Glen found out there?’

‘Did you see the bone he had?’ Megan asked.

Vicky nodded. ‘Deer?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘What, then?’ asked Vicky, putting a hand on Megan’s shoulder, giving her a fleeting sense of comfort. Megan sensed Vicky felt protective toward her; people often did. Her diminutive frame and cropped hair made her seem like her sons’ older sister rather than their mother. Perhaps it was because Vicky knew how hard it was to raise kids on your own; her own daughter, Louise, was asleep upstairs. Or maybe she sensed Megan’s anxiety. When Megan had returned ashen-faced and asked people to leave because she was tired, Vicky had raised her eyebrows in surprise.

‘I’m going to take another look,’ said Megan.

‘Want me to come with you?’

Megan nodded in gratitude. It was stupid to involve Vicky but she couldn’t face it on her own. She put on her rain jacket and handed a spare that hung by the back door to Vicky. ‘Better put that on. It’s still pissing down out there.’

It was close to eleven, and despite low clouds the sky held a faint glow as they picked their way across the sodden garden, hemmed in by trees that hung heavy and damp. Beyond the decrepit fence, a mini digger stood guard over the earthy pit. The new tank, still enveloped in heavy-duty polythene, stood beside it. The upheaval had meant the toilet had been out of use since the old tank had been removed earlier that day, but the boys had found peeing in the garden a hoot and Megan’s runner friends were well used to crouching behind bushes halfway up hills.

Vicky grabbed Megan’s arm as they approached the grave-like opening. ‘I’ve never seen you looking so scared. What are you expecting to find?’

‘It might be better if you don’t get involved. I think it’s… it’s…’ Megan tailed off, not able to put into words what she was dreading.

She noticed Vicky hesitate and didn’t blame her. Vicky had witnessed the chaos of Megan’s life many times. ‘You should go back inside. Leave this to me,’ Megan said to her.

But Vicky took her hand. ‘It’s okay, I’ll stay.’

Megan felt relieved. Vicky could be trusted with a secret; she reckoned Vicky had a few of her own.

‘I should’ve brought a torch,’ said Megan as they peered over the edge. ‘Can you see anything down there?’ Vicky was leaning over the hole, still holding Megan’s hand, when Glen hurtled past their legs, chasing an imagined rabbit. Vicky’s foot slipped, loose earth gave way and they both slid forwards. Frantically overcorrecting, they fell onto their backsides in the musty-smelling mud beside the sealed-off septic tank pipe.

‘Oh my God,’ cried Vicky, scrambling to her feet. Something cracked and she looked down to see a broken bone under her trainer. ‘What’s that?’

‘I think it might be my dad,’ said Megan.

Chapter Two – SARAH

Friday, 6 May 2005, 10.30pm

On the road that stretched between the shadowy mountains, the car slammed into the deer at sixty miles an hour. Sarah’s body was gripped by the seat belt but her head was jerked forward by the impact. Her skull crashed against the door frame as the car spun sideways then juddered to an abrupt halt in a ditch. She felt dazed, shaken and sore.

‘Fuck sake, man, not another one.’ Gregor banged his hand on the steering wheel before climbing out of the car. Wind howled through the vehicle as Lewis followed him, and they both made their way onto the road to survey what was left of the beautiful creature.

Sarah’s head hurt and her hand shook as she unclipped her belt, pushed her door open and stepped out. The cold, damp air hit her face as her foot plunged into slippery mud which closed around her ankle, causing her to stumble and fall to her knees. Lewis appeared and helped her to her feet.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked and she nodded as they made their way around the car. Gregor was staring at the animal that lay across the white line in the middle of the road. Its back legs jerked but the beast was in trouble. Sarah caught a glimpse of brown Bambi eyes as it tried to lift its head.

‘I’m gonna have tae deal with it,’ said Gregor as he returned to the car and lifted the boot. Sarah’s thoughts of phoning a vet were interrupted when he reappeared with a rifle. She stifled a scream as Gregor lifted the gun to his shoulder and fired a shot straight through the animal’s head. A pool of blood appeared on the road, dissipating in the misty rain. Gregor returned the gun to the car then spoke to Lewis. ‘Gie us a hand, like,’ he muttered, prompting Lewis to take hold of one of the deer’s rear legs and help his friend drag the animal onto the verge. Gregor then crossed the road to survey his car in silence. Sarah jumped out of her skin when he kicked the car and screamed, ‘Fuck sake, man, will ya look at the state of ma motor!’

Lewis sensed Sarah’s alarm and put his arm round her shoulders as they watched Gregor kick and rant at his car. ‘He has moments like this.’ Lewis looked apologetically at Sarah. ‘He’ll calm down in a bit.’

Sarah shivered and leant against Lewis, trying to shield her face from the weather. It was May but the night air was fresh and the chill from the mud soaking her lower legs had seeped upwards until her whole body felt cold. She wished she was back in her flat in London, but she had returned the keys that morning before carting two large suitcases to Euston station and setting off on an adventure to Scotland to start a new life with Lewis; rough-around-the-edges Lewis, who had bowled her over with his intense stare and Scottish accent. It had happened at a fortuitous time; she had just turned thirty, she hated her job, and several of her girlfriends had become mothers and disappeared into their houses, never to be seen again. Sarah had taken Lewis to meet her family and noticed that her stepmother, Cecilia, had taken an instant dislike to Lewis’s forthright and sometimes coarse manner of speaking. It had given Sarah great delight to announce she was leaving with Lewis to start a new life in Scotland.

‘Oh, darling, really? Must you?’ Cecilia had asked. ‘I’ve enjoyed spending time with you now that Robbie’s away at uni.’

That’s one of the reasons I want to go, Sarah had thought. Cecilia had been visiting her more often since her half-brother Robbie had left home the previous year. Too bloody late. You can’t make up for ignoring me and wishing I wasn’t there when he was a baby.

Sarah’s father had wished her well but, as usual, seemed only vaguely interested in her plans.

However, this was not the start she had envisaged for her new life.

‘You’ll have to take the wheel, Sarah. We’ll try to push the car back onto the road,’ said Lewis, after an earnest discussion with Gregor.

With misgivings, she climbed into the car and tried to follow their shouted instructions: Accelerate! No, not that hard! Take it easy for God’s sake. The tyre’s spinning, stop, STOP! Sarah found it stressful. She had driven occasionally since passing her test ten years previously but, having lived in London all her life, had found little need for a car. Her confidence was low driving on a road, never mind out of a ditch. To her relief, with a last push from the boys, the car leapt forward onto the tarmac. Sarah retreated to the back seat of the ancient Fiesta to let the two men in. Relief and misery, in equal measure, enveloped her as they set off again, the dead animal abandoned by the roadside, the two men straight back to their intense and incessant conversation.

‘I’ll get a good blether with Gregor on the way up the road,’ Lewis had said as the train had arrived in Fort William. Sure enough, they had not stopped talking since they’d got into Gregor’s car, and Sarah had barely understood a word. They might have been speaking a different language for all she could comprehend. Perhaps it was Gaelic. She had spotted several road signs with long, unpronounceable words written above the English. It was like entering a foreign country. She had become used to Lewis’s Scottish accent but the speed of his speech had increased tenfold since crossing the border.

The babble from the front of the car had almost lulled Sarah to sleep before the accident, but now she felt alert and on edge as the road twisted between mountains that disappeared into the mist and around rocky outcrops, eventually reaching the sea, a black expanse beneath the gloomy sky. It was almost eleven by then but the darkness was incomplete despite the low clouds. After the day’s surreal and nightmarish events, Sarah’s sense of being transported into another world was complete.

As they sped along the coastal road Sarah stared out at the water, dotted with distant hulks she guessed must be islands. They had left London at seven that morning, changing trains in Glasgow, and she felt a long way from home. How much longer was this journey going to take? Why did Gregor have a gun in the boot of his car? He was apparently a school friend of Lewis, but Sarah knew little more than that. None of her school friends owned guns. She also wanted to know more about Lewis’s sister and her kids, who they were going to be staying with, something Sarah had only found out about that morning.

‘You know I said my mum was staying in the old folks’ home for a bit? I forgot to mention that Megan is staying at her house while she’s not there.’

‘It’ll be nice to meet her.’

He had paused for a moment. ‘Her three boys will be there too, unfortunately.’

‘Oh well, I suppose they’ll be glad to see us so they can get back to their own house.’

Lewis sighed. ‘Yeah, let’s hope so.’

A short while later, before reaching the town, they turned off the main road and bumped along a stretch of potholed single track before stopping outside a large house with peeling, once-white paint, crowded by tall trees. Gregor and Lewis jumped out and pulled Sarah’s two heavy suitcases from the boot. ‘See ya,’ shouted Gregor before he drove off.

Lewis stared at the building for a while. ‘This place has gone downhill a bit since I was last here.’

‘Five years?’ said Sarah.

‘Yeah, I cannae believe it.’ He glanced at her. ‘I hope you’re going to find it okay here. It’s a bit different to London, like.’

‘I was sick of London. We both needed a change.’

‘Yeah, I guess. That shift work in the factory was doing my head in.’

‘And you wanted to come home,’ Sarah reminded him.

‘Aye, so I did.’

Lewis picked up one of Sarah’s cases and opened one side of the ancient red door before disappearing inside. Sarah heaved the other suitcase over the threadbare gravel towards the door but struggled to get herself and the case through the narrow opening. She battled with it for a few moments, but wasn’t strong enough to turn the suitcase and pull it through the door behind her, so she left it wedged in the doorway and followed Lewis, her heart fluttering in anticipation. She crossed a large, unlit hall and stumbled down an unexpected step in the middle of it, twisting her ankle. Suppressing a yelp of pain, she walked toward the room with the light on. Inside the kitchen, Lewis was embracing a young boy, while a woman with dark blonde hair watched them. The three of them looked at her.

‘Come and meet my sister,’ said Lewis and Sarah smiled at the blonde woman, wondering what she should do. Shake her hand? Hug her? Just keep smiling? But Lewis laughed and put his hand on the blonde woman’s shoulder. ‘Nah, this is Vicky. She’s Megan’s pal.’ He playfully punched the young boy who, on closer inspection, was, indeed, female, and not as young as she had at first seemed. ‘This is my sister. Who managed to forget we were coming today.’

Megan punched him back, harder. ‘I didn’t forget. You told me you were coming tomorrow.’

‘Aye well, we’re here now,’ said Lewis. ‘You gonna make us a cup of tea or something?’

‘You know where the kettle is, don’t you?’ Megan looked over at Sarah apologetically. ‘Come in, take a seat. Sorry about the mess.’ Megan indicated the floor, which Sarah noticed was covered in mud, not just from the collie that was padding about with earth all over its underside, but from Megan’s and Vicky’s shoes, too. Sarah pulled a chair out but saw that it, too, was covered in mud.

‘Sorry, that was me,’ said Megan. She turned around and showed Sarah her soaked backside. ‘Vicky and I went out to… em… check something in the garden, and we both fell over. It’s a quagmire out there. New septic tank getting put in.’

‘A new tank?’ asked Lewis. ‘Why?’

‘Why do you think, you big eejit? The old one was falling apart. Leaking all over the place.’

‘So, who’s doing the work?’

Megan ignored him. ‘Take a seat, Sarah. Do you want some tea?’

‘Yeah, thanks,’ said Sarah, looking at the other chairs to see if there was a clean one. A deep fatigue came over her, her ankle throbbed from her stumble in the hall and her head pounded from the bang in the car. All she wanted to do was sit down. But first, ‘Can I use your loo? It’s been a long journey.’

‘Sure,’ said Lewis. ‘It’s on the first floor, on the right.’

‘Actually, you can’t,’ said Megan as Sarah set off out of the kitchen. ‘It’s out of action just now. The septic tank, you see. We’re waiting for them to install the new one. Sorry.’

‘So, there’s no toilet?’

‘Nope. We’ve just been peeing in the bushes at the side of the garden. And if it’s, you know… well, there’s these.’ Megan pointed to a packet of black dog poo bags on the counter.

‘But it’s raining,’ said Sarah in a quiet, exhausted voice. Megan went to the hall to get a brolly for Sarah.

‘So, em, I just go out the back, in the garden?’

‘Yeah, but… well… keep away from the septic tank or you’ll fall into the hole.’ Megan pushed the packet of dog poo bags along the counter. ‘Do you need one of these?’

Sarah stared at the little black bags for a moment. She shook her head then went out the back door into the rain.

Thanks for reading! If you would like to read reviews or buy Glasdrum, here is the link: http://amzn.to/2o0dnnI

 

Prologue

The stench made her gag. For a moment she was transfixed by the room’s awfulness; the gloom, the paint peeling off the walls, the thin foam mattress covered by a filthy blanket. Behind her the door slammed and she turned. But it was too late. She heard a bolt being drawn on the other side and the gravity of her situation hit her. She should have listened to her mother.

Chapter One

2013

Jane stared at the note she’d found on her daughter’s pillow, struggling to make sense of the words. Anna had lied. She wasn’t staying with a friend.

She sank onto the bed, white with shock, her hands shaking. Her worst nightmare was coming true. For eighteen years Jane had tried to protect Anna from their past but now, as she stared at the brief letter, the fabric of her carefully constructed life unravelled.

Hi Mum, I knew you’d look in my room eventually. You won’t like this but since you won’t tell me about him I’ve gone to Tunisia to try to meet my dad and maybe I’ll find out what happened to your sister, too. I got a really good deal on a package holiday so it didn’t cost me much! Please don’t be angry and DON’T WORRY, I’ll be really careful. I’ll phone you on Friday. Love you, Anna xxx

Jane contemplated the last sentence, I’ll phone you on Friday. That was today and there’d been no phone call.

Her heart hammering, she screwed the note into a ball and hurled it across the room, rejecting this awful news. Anna had always been independent, determined to manage on her own. And now she thought she could cope, abroad, with nothing but savings from her Saturday job… and this obsession with finding her father.

Her father… Jane groaned and leaned forward, elbows on her knees, head cradled in her hands. She should have told her about him years ago. But where would she have started? When had been the right moment? Time had passed and opportunities had been missed; Jane had buried her head in the sand.

She could kick herself for that moment of weakness a few months ago when, after too many glasses of wine, she had let slip she had a sister. That had been the trigger for everything that followed.

‘A sister! Why have you never told me about her before?’ Anna had seized on Jane’s words. ‘Where is she now?’

Jane had taken a sharp breath and tried to gather her thoughts. ‘Crystal lived in Tunisia… years ago, before you were born. I tried to get her to come back to Britain with me, but…’ Jane had stumbled over her words, ‘… she changed her mind. She didn’t want to leave so she went back… to her husband, and…’

Anna had stared at Jane, waiting. ‘And…?’

‘That’s all there is, Anna.’ Jane looked up, stricken. ‘Crystal stayed over there and I’ve never seen her since. We fell out, then just… lost touch.’ Jane rubbed her hand across her forehead.

‘What did you fall out about?’

‘I’m sorry but I can’t talk about it.’ She had got up, trying to hide her crumbling face from Anna as memories from the past crowded into her mind. The stress of keeping so many secrets made Jane feel wretched, as though she had disintegrated into the shell of the person she used to be, always punishing herself for what had happened.

Anna hadn’t been willing to drop it. ‘So, you won’t tell me about your sister. Will you at least tell me about my father?’

‘I’ve already explained, Anna. It was a brief relationship and we split up before I even found out I was pregnant. I’m not proud of it but I’m glad it happened or I wouldn’t have you.’

‘Did you meet him when you lived in Tunisia? I mean, look how dark-skinned I am compared to you.’

‘It was after I came back. And before you ask, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to try to track him down. We’re fine on our own.’

‘You’re lying! I can tell. Your eyes go all shifty when you lie. I think he was Tunisian and you don’t want to tell me about him, just like you don’t want to talk about your sister or anything that happened to you back then.’

‘Can’t you just be happy with your life as it is? You’re going to university in a few months. Live for the future, not the past.’

Anna had rolled her eyes. ‘Then I’ll find out for myself.’

‘Do what you have to, Anna.’ Jane had sighed and ignored the anger that burned in her daughter’s eyes, hoping it was a passing teenage phase. But now, faced with her note, Jane realised Anna had meant what she’d said. She’d gone through Jane’s things and had found the photo of Jane and Ali at the watersports base. She’d seen the love in their eyes as they gazed at one another. She’d jumped to conclusions. And now she was gone.

Jane felt the spectre of her previous life reaching out to haunt her; she had to go after her daughter. She had to keep her safe.

The next morning Jane boarded a Tunisair flight from Heathrow, jittery with nerves and caffeine. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the airplane seat, listening to the Arabic voices around her as the plane accelerated down the runway. The usual twist of angst Jane felt at the moment of take-off was multiplied tenfold. It was too late to get off, too late to change her mind. The plane carried her back in time, filled with dread.

Chapter Two

1994

A warm wind blew Jane’s fair hair over her face as she stepped off the aircraft. After the grey January skies of London, the bright blue dome over Tunisia was welcomed.

‘Let’s get ahead of the queue,’ said Gary as they hurried across the tarmac in a crowd of holiday makers.

In the stifling heat of the airport building, Jane fanned herself with her passport. ‘I hope I’m doing the right thing,’ she muttered, not for the first time. Every now and then the strangeness of the situation hit her and she felt a flash of nostalgia for her life before she found out she had a sister. She couldn’t shake the feeling she’d stepped into the shoes of someone more adventurous than herself.

‘You want to find your sister, don’t you?’ asked Gary.

‘Of course I do, but it’ll be weird. And I’m worried about my dad.’

‘Sam wanted you to come. And the hospice will get in touch if he gets any worse. He was insistent that you find Crystal before, well…’

Jane’s heart squeezed in pain at Gary’s unsaid words. Her father’s death was only a matter of time and the thought was unbearable. The prospect of losing her only family member was a dull ache she carried around.

‘What if Crystal doesn’t want to be found? She might not know she has a sister. She might not want to know!’

‘I bet she’ll be delighted. Now stop worrying. What would Sam say about all this negativity, hmm?’

‘He’d tell me to snap out of it and be positive.’

‘Exactly.’

They arrived at their tower-block hotel in Sousse to discover they were booked into a double rather than a twin room. Jane tried to explain they weren’t a couple but the receptionist shrugged and looked blankly at her.

‘Don’t concern yourself about it, Jane darling. If there are any men around of my persuasion, I will be making it very clear you mean nothing to me.’ Gary did an exaggerated mincing walk across the lobby and Jane giggled. Gary always made her laugh and it was most welcome; it wasn’t easy to smile these days.

It was two in the morning and they were both exhausted by the time Gary opened the door to their room. ‘Seventies retro, how fabulous,’ he said, pointing at the faded orange and brown carpet, with matching bed cover and curtains; the hotel had been built in 1975 and not renovated since. They dumped their cases in the corner and agreed to get straight to sleep. ‘No funny business,’ said Gary as they climbed into bed together.

‘You’re not my type,’ she replied, kicking him.

A while later, unable to sleep, she asked if he was still awake.

‘No, I’m sleeping.’

‘What if we find Crystal but she doesn’t believe who I am?’

‘Holy cow, will you stop agonising and get some kip!’

Gary was soon mumbling at his work colleagues in his dreams while Jane lay, staring at the ceiling, anticipation coursing through her veins. Even Gary, her best friend, didn’t understand how much it meant to Jane to know she had a sibling, some family other than her father. Jane twisted away, put the pillow over her head and tried to sleep.

In the morning, they joined the rush for the last ten minutes of breakfast buffet before starting their search. All they had to go on was a letter Sam had obtained via Social Services from Crystal’s adoptive parents saying she had married a Tunisian man called Waheed Hadda, who was the manager of a hotel in Sousse. The parents hadn’t been supportive of the marriage and had lost contact with Crystal several years earlier. Sam had dropped that bombshell not long before he’d been admitted to the hospice.

‘I’m so sorry for shocking you, Jane,’ he’d said. ‘I should have told you about your half-sister a long time ago. Your mother had Crystal about a year before I met her but she couldn’t cope and the baby was put up for adoption when she was a few months old.’

Sitting by his bedside in the hospice, Jane had absorbed this in silence. Hot tears had burned in her eyes for the sibling she had never known and for the mother she could not remember.

‘When I met your mother I was such an arrogant sod I thought I could look after her, cure her demons.’ He had given a tight smile. ‘I couldn’t, of course. We had you soon after we met but she never recovered from giving Crystal up and begged me never to tell you what she had done. You were only a toddler when she took her life and I thought I should respect her wishes… but I was wrong. I realise now she wasn’t thinking straight. I should have told you.’ He looked at Jane with bleak eyes. ‘When I found out I was ill, I contacted Social Services to find out what had happened to the baby. That’s when I got the letter.’

Jane had sat back for a moment, overcome. Sam had gripped her hand. ‘I’m not going to be around for much longer and it would mean everything to me to know you’d met her, that I wasn’t leaving you on your own. You must go and find her.’

‘People will think I’m a terrible daughter, leaving you when you’re so ill.’

‘We live for ourselves, not for others, don’t we Jane?’

She nodded. Sam had always done what he wanted, and had encouraged Jane to do the same. Somehow, though, it had usually meant Jane doing what Sam wanted.

So it had been with mixed feelings that Jane had booked a week off from her admin job in a recruitment agency and asked Gary to accompany her on a cheap off-season package holiday on what felt a bit like a mad quest. Gary, of course, had been instantly enthusiastic. ‘God, I need a holiday. These bastards at my law firm think I’m some kind of slave, not a trainee.’

It had all happened so fast that it wasn’t until after they’d stuffed themselves on breakfast buffet that it sunk in neither of them had much of an idea where to start their search. On a whim, Jane asked one of the hotel staff if any of them had heard of Waheed Hadda, manager of a hotel in Sousse.

‘Which hotel?’

‘We don’t know,’ said Jane, elbowing Gary as he rolled his eyes and muttered that if they knew which hotel then that’s where they would have gone to ask. Her request was met with blank stares.

‘We need to hire some kind of investigator,’ said Gary. ‘We can’t go around asking random people if they’ve heard of him.’

‘I think we should ask at a few hotels first. If he’s a manager, there’s a chance someone will have heard of him. Finding an investigator will be much more difficult. We don’t know where to start, we don’t know if they’d speak English, we don’t even know if they would be legally permitted to track somebody down and—’

‘Okay, okay,’ Gary held his hands up. ‘We’ll do it your way.’

Outside the hotel a strip of signs advertising fast food and car hire stretched into the distance. Jane fastened her denim jacket against the slight winter chill as a gaggle of young women, oblivious to the cold in their flimsy dresses, hurried past along the chipped pavements. The scent of cheap-smelling perfume in their wake briefly obliterated the unmistakable aroma of dry foreign climes: jasmine, coffee and the sun-parched dust that was thrown into the air with each motorcycle that passed.

They made their way along the promenade, entering each hotel to ask about Waheed Hadda. Nobody had heard of him. Indeed, hotel workers were perplexed to have two tourists ask about a local man. The general reaction was off-hand, if not downright hostile. It was early afternoon by the time they wandered, disheartened, onto the beach to enjoy the stronger rays of the midday sun and contemplate their next move. People on genuine holidays ran about in bikinis and shorts, but with the temperature struggling to hit twenty-five degrees, few people ventured into the sea.

‘Hey, nice people, you wanna take a jet ski ride?’ A local man in a faded T-shirt and cut-off denim shorts stood in front of them. ‘I give you good price.’

‘No, thanks,’ said Jane, prompting the man to throw himself onto the sand beside her.

‘But why? Why you not want to? It’s good. Not expensive. Come on – have fun when you on holiday!’

Gary pushed his sunglasses onto his head and lay back to watch Jane cope with the sales pitch. Jane didn’t have it in her to be rude and, sure enough, she started explaining to the man.

‘We’re not here on holiday. I’m here to look for my sister.’

‘She’s lost?’

‘I’ve never met her. I was told she was married to a hotel manager in Sousse.’

The man’s face lit up and he placed his hand against his chest. ‘I will help you find your sister.’ He shouted across the beach to a couple of local lads who were sitting idly on an inflatable banana boat, waiting for out-of-season custom. They jumped to their feet and approached, grinning at Jane and Gary. After a staccato burst of Arabic, the first man pointed at Jane, then asked her what she knew.

‘I only know his name: Waheed Hadda.’ There was another round of Arabic, with some gesticulating.

‘This is Yousef.’ The first man stood and put his arm around the shoulders of one of the other men. ‘He knows Monsieur Hadda. He is manager of Hotel El Chems in Port El Kantaoui. Yousef’s cousin works for him on the watersports base in front of his hotel. Well, he works for Mr Hadda’s nephew, Mustafa, but it’s the same thing.’ The man leaned towards Jane as she got to her feet. ‘But Waheed is not Tunisian. He’s from Saudi.’ He raised his eyebrows and nodded as though this were of significance.

‘Where did you say his hotel was? Port something?’

‘Port El Kantaoui. It’s ten kilometres away. You find your sister, you tell her Mohammed and Yousef from Base Five in Sousse helped you.’

‘Thank you so much.’ Jane accepted the man’s outstretched hand and found herself engaged in a vigorous handshake. ‘We’ll look for her straight away.’

‘You go on a jet ski first.’

‘Well…’ Jane started to back away but the man kept hold of her hand. ‘I help you, now you help me. I spent this time talking to you. If you don’t take a ride, my boss is going to be angry with me.’

Gary handed the man thirty dinars. ‘I’m sure that’s enough to cover your time. Come on, Jane.’ He took her arm and pulled her away. Jane called out a thank you over her shoulder as they left, but the man was busy counting the money and didn’t notice.

Jane followed Gary away from the beach, her mind in a swirl. Could they really have found Crystal’s husband already? A tiny part of Jane had thought they were being delusional; amateur sleuths with no realistic possibility of locating someone on such scant information. But perhaps it wasn’t so unfeasible after all. Jane’s heart fluttered a little as she took one step further into the unknown.

Thanks for reading. If you would like to read reviews or buy Daughter, Disappeared, this is the link: http://amzn.to/2eCnZRf

Better than nothing?

All authors, but especially self-published ones, lament the time and expense required to market books. Your book could be a fabulous read, well-reviewed, and enjoyed by most people who read it… but unless you have a means of making it visible to potential readers, then you won’t sell any.

This is an enormous problem.

For the first year after publishing my two books I spent a lot of time (and money) advertising and promoting them, and there are loads of blogs out there with marketing suggestions. Few are without cost and all are time-consuming.

It’s perhaps not so bad if you are a full-time writer and have the time to spare to both write new books and also publicise the ones you’ve already written. I’ve noticed that many of the advice blogs about book promotion presume this to be the case. They say things like, when you are arranging your book launches remember to… and each time you publish a new title you should… Blimey – publishing a new title is a monumental and rare activity for me. It takes me years to write a novel. One article I read recently (from a reputable self-publishing advice company) suggested aiming to publish half a dozen new titles a year to maximise sales. I had a pure What the Fuck moment at that. And it confirmed what I had started to think – reading such articles leaves me feeling that this shit ain’t for me. Book marketing advice started to remind me of good parenting blogs – the more you read, the more inadequate you feel. I cannot write a book in six months in addition to a daily blog post, just as I can’t always feed my children home-cooked food, and do glitter-and-glue type activities instead of letting them play Fortnite. There just aren’t enough hours in the day, on top of doing a full-time job that actually earns money.

Anyhow. I wasn’t selling more than the odd  kindle book every few days, so I decided to run a promotion. I went onto my KDP dashboard*, set up a half price deal for both my ebooks for a week, and I ran a simultaneous advert on Facebook. The advertising worked, my daily sales went from about 0.25 per day to around 5 per day. In 6 days I earned £34 roughly, and I spent £30 on the Facebook advert.

So I made a profit!

Shall I save it or spend it? Maybe I’ll splash out on a coffee and cake.

{contemplates the profit}

Okay, well maybe just a fancy coffee on its own. Who needs cake anyway?

[Endnote: After this foray back into marketing, I have returned to the decision I made about 6 months ago to give up sales activity in favour of writing the third novel. And after two abandoned attempts, I’m now 30k words into ‘Blackrock’ and am very excited about the story and enjoying writing again. See y’all next year!]

*KDP is Kindle Direct Publishing, Amazon’s ebook and print on demand publishing service.