Turbulence by Giles Foden Page A

a few minutes, passing under some of the finest mountain scenery I’d seen outside Africa, the Wee Lorne was cranking towards a craggy foreshore where, with foam washing under its stanchions, Blairmore’s own pier jutted out into the foot of Loch Long.
    I decided I would go straight to Ryman’s house, reasoning that, if the building in which I was to live was nearby, I could make myself known to him in the course of establishing myself in my new home.

5
    I stood motionless on the planks of the pier, squinting at the plumes of smoke rising from the stacks of the departing Marchioness of Lorne . Its decks were still full of folk bound for Arrochar at the head of the loch and other destinations in between. A fine sight, that twin pillar of blackish-greyish-whitish smoke – leaning at first then streaming backwards, so that it lay horizontally against the clouds.
    The steam plumes began to move eastward, back towards the Firth and Glasgow. They would, I knew, break up during the twenty-five miles between here and the city, separating as atmospheric diffusion took effect. I watched only the first stage as the plumes bent at the near end, becoming like question-marks in the sky.
    A large, dark seabird – a great skua? – flew among the swirling shapes, to the disintegration of which its own powerful wingbeats were contributing further dispersive energy. Soon the objects of this dark interpreter’s attention – I could hear it calling now, a harsh hah- hah- hah – would become something else, chemically and physically altered by the more powerful forces of the surrounding air.
    As I walked up the pier, from behind the little stone hut at the end a strange sight appeared. An anachronism … a horse and trap … The animal was stamping and steaming, blowing a little bubble of froth from its mouth. I stared at the little spoked wheels of the trap. It took me a few seconds to rationalise it. Blairmore time, it seemed, was a long waybehind London time – by a half a century at least!
    Stepping out from behind the horse, a rough, gypsy-looking man in his forties completed the Victorian picture. Lifting his whip in salute, he gestured to the back of the trap. He wore a tweed cap and chewed on a pipe – it stuck out of his unshaven, windswept face like a branch from a pollarded tree. He struck me as a not very prosperous farmer, with a dash of drover or poacher.
    â€˜The Ryman house, Kilmun, please,’ I said, as he stowed my heavy leather suitcase in a net in the back of the gig, which already contained several parcels and a crate. I climbed aboard, he sat beside me, and with a touch of the whip the wheels were turning and we were on our way.
    His name was Mackellar – he gave no first name – and he was, as I had guessed, a farmer. ‘I meet the ferry whenever she comes in,’ he said. ‘Pick up the messages, passengers. The messages I pick up for nothing, passengers are fourpence.’
    He gave me a hard, sidelong look. ‘Ye have it?’
    I nodded, gripping the black-lacquered wood of the seat as we clipped along by the lapping water.
    â€˜You’ll be the weather man, is that no’ right?’ he asked.
    â€˜How did you know?’
    â€˜They’ve put in a’ this equipment for you. On my land. My building as well. Compulsory order. No rent, mind, but that’s the government for you, war or no war.’ He gave the horse a tap with the crop and our pace increased with a jolt.
    I shifted in my seat. ‘Sorry about that. But it is important work, you know.’ I tried to think of a simple way to describe it. ‘If there is to be rain, we forecast it to warn the soldiers.’
    He gave me another sidelong look, and tapped the horse’s flank again. ‘Dae the soldiers no have mackintoshes, then?’
    I smiled and turned my attention to the passing country. Once we had left the little hamlet of Blairmore, my spirits