CHAPTER 3
THE GAMES

I woke to the sound of Brian banging his head on the campervan's low ceiling, followed by a string of creative expletives that would have made a Glasgow docker blush. Our first night in the"mobile cupboard" had been exactly as comfortable as predicted.

"Morning, sunshine," I called to Brian, who was trying to brew us a cuppa on our miniature stove.

He just grunted, still half-lost to the world. Maybe he needed a few more minutes to recover from a night spent wrestling with a mattress that was both too firm and too narrow. Or perhaps it was my snoring that had kept him awake. Hard to tell.

I stretched, wincing as my spine crackled in protest, and reached for my bag. The collection of flyers I'd grabbed from the café yesterday spilt onto the tiny fold-down table.

"What's all that?" Brian asked, carefully pouring boiling water into two mugs.

"Local events. I thought we should check out some authentic Highland culture for the article." I sorted through the colourful papers."Look, there's Highland Games at John o'Groats today. Hammer throwing, caber tossing, bagpipes – the full Scottish experience."

Brian peered over my shoulder, tea sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his mug."Brilliant! Can we go? I've always wanted to see someone toss a caber."

"You know what a caber is, do you?"

"Of course!" He paused."It's that… wooden pole thing they throw."

"Very technical."

"Will there be food?" Brian's priorities, as always, were crystal clear.

"I imagine so."

Brian sipped his tea."This would be great for my Instagram. I bet there aren't many vegan lifestyle influencers covering the Highland Games."

"Probably because the Highland Games are essentially a celebration of lifting heavy things and eating meat," I pointed out.

"All the more reason to break new ground." He tapped the flyer."How far is John o'Groats from here?"

I checked the map."About an hour's drive. If we leave soon, we'll catch most of it."

Brian was already stuffing his photography gear into his backpack."Let's go! I want to see men in kilts throwing trees!"

The drive to John o'Groats took longer than expected, partly due to the single-track roads and partly due to Brian insisting we stop three times to photograph particularly picturesque sheep. By the time we arrived, the car park was nearly full, and we had to squeeze our campervan between a massive tour bus and a mud-splattered Land Rover.

"I can hear bagpipes," Brian said as we picked our way across the gravelly car park."Actual bagpipes! This is proper Scotland, Joana."

The field hosting the Games was a hive of activity. A circle of stalls selling everything from homemade jams to hand-knitted jumpers surrounded an open area where various competitions were taking place. Men in kilts – some with calves that could probably crack walnuts – were gathered around several arenas, while spectators clutching takeaway cups of beer and whisky cheered them on.

"This is amazing," Brian breathed, his camera already out."Look at that bloke!"

He pointed to a mountain of a man hoisting a hammer – a metal ball on the end of a wooden shaft – and spinning in circles before launching it into the air. It landed with a distant thud as the crowd roared approval.

"That's the hammer throw," I explained, consulting the programme I'd picked up at the entrance."There's also weight for distance, weight for height, shot put, and of course, the caber toss."

"What's that one?" Brian pointed to a group of men taking turns throwing what looked like a hessian sack