The question everyone asks me, from the time I announced I was moving to Scotland, is, “WHY?” Why would a gal from the Sunny South, weaned on blues music and raised on soul food, pick up and move 3,000 miles to the chilly and remote Highlands of Scotland? The answer, as you can see, is a fellow. Rab and I met in the U.S., by random chance, when he was visiting mutual friends. You could say we hit it off like a house on fire. Thanks to Facebook, we kept in touch and after a while, friendly banter turned into something more. Rab decided to come back to Mississippi to visit and fulfil his lifelong dream to go to New Orleans, I offered to be his tour guide. No pressure, we promised each other, let’s just see how things go.
If on his previous visit we got on like a house on fire, this time the whole town was going up in flames. We drove to New Orleans down through the Mississippi Delta, and I took Rab to his first blues festival. Having practically grown up in New Orleans, I showed him the town and we painted it red. We celebrated the last moments of his birthday slow dancing to La Vie En Rose in the Spotted Cat jazz club. Two weeks never went by so fast. We knew we couldn’t say goodbye forever. He had come on a mission to win my heart, he said. He succeeded. He quickly made plans to come back at Christmas. After another two weeks together, we started to make plans. Marriage was in the cards. At first we thought he would move to America, but after weighing the options and the time it would take for him to immigrate- at least two years- compared to a few months for me to go to Scotland, I decided I would move.
I sold my farm and said a tearful goodbye to my family in Mississippi to join my fellow in Scotland, where we live in a cozy cottage on the ruins of an ancient settlement in a picturesque glen on the west coast. When I tell people how I ended up in Scotland, they often remark that I am living a fairy tale. I think they may be right. The Highlander and the Cowgirl, together, at last.