I went to Loch Leven in Fife, and figured out why I was unpopular in high school…

This week summer arrived in Scotland (yes, in the second week of September…), and the three days it lasted just so happened to coincide with yet another school holiday for Max, so I took a break from writing The Novel With No Name, and we headed to Loch Leven island instead, with some friends.

Here’s Max and I on the boat, in the only decent photo I got of us both:

And here’s what all the other photos looked like:

He calls me ‘bruh’ now and refuses to allow me to pick out his outfits for him, unless I bribe him with sweets first. On this occasion I did, in fact, resort to bribery, only to regret it later when I looked back at the photos and realised I’d dressed us more or less the same, and that’s probably why I’m not allowed to pick out his clothes any more.

Here’s Loch Leven island, which, as you can see, has a ruined castle on it, just like most places in Scotland:

An interesting fact about this island is that Mary, Queen of Scots, was held prisoner here for almost a year (during which she was forced to abdicate the throne), before making a daring escape under cover of darkness, helped by a local boy called Willie Douglas, who may or may not have been in love with her, but who I like to think definitely was.

A slightly less interesting fact about Loch Leven, meanwhile, is that it was the inspiration for the loch/island/castle I called Loch Keld in my Heather Bay books, although I should probably point out here that the island plays no actual role in those books, and no one even visits it, let alone makes a daring escape from it under cover of darkness. It’s just kind of there, really, and one of the reasons it’s there is that the place has basically lived rent-free in my mind ever since I spent a large chunk of my childhood obsessed with Mary, Queen of Scots. (Because, yes, other kids my age were obsessed with Madonna1, or Cabbage Patch Kids, or whatever, but leave it to me to be obsessed with a 16th century Queen who came to a sticky end. Yup.)

I was obsessed with Mary, though, not just because she was a literal Queen, but because she was red haired, beautiful, and not particularly appreciated in her own time. I, meanwhile, was only two of those things (And when I tell you I took approximately 300 photos of myself last weekend to use as my new author headshot, and didn’t get even ONE I liked enough to use, you’ll probably guess which one I wasn’t…), but I nevertheless related hard to the tragic queen with her fiery red hair and really quite large forehead, if drawings from the time are to be believed. Look, my nickname at school was ‘Spam Head’, OK? It wasn’t often I found myself a similarly large-headed role model to look up to, so when one finally presented herself, I found myself willing to overlook the fact that she was from the 16th century, and, you know, dead. You would too.

In fact, before I acquired The Observers Book of Horses, plus an incredibly large team of imaginary ponies, I used to have great fun making my unfortunate friends play a game I can only really refer to as “Let’s Pretend Amber is Mary, Queen of Scots”. I was Young Mary, obviously: freshly arrived from the French court, and considered much more sophisticated and interesting than anyone else in the world her circle. The ‘game’ never really progressed much beyond that; we never reached the point of Mary’s 19-year imprisonment say (Because, boring…), or, God forbid, the beheading, so it really just involved me flouncing around and being admired by everyone so, in retrospect, it’s not really that hard to understand why no one really liked me in primary school, is it?

Even though I always, always took things way too far with my imaginary play, however, I maintain that Mary was a pretty badass role model, all things considered, and as we wandered around Loch Leven Castle, which she allegedly complained was too small, and not decorated to her tastes (They apparently redecorated just for her), I thought, “Yeah, I still get it.” I mean, here, at last, was proof that you could have ‘ginger’ hair and a massive forehead, but still have all the boys literally willing to kill each other over you. Here was a strong, sassy woman, who, okay, was eventually beheaded, but who was still pretty cool, really.

(And here, too, was proof that if you complain enough about stuff, the people around you will eventually bend to your will. That’s how I eventually got that pair of Kickers I wanted in high school, although that’s a whole other story…)

Anyway, on the boat back to the mainland, Terry asked the… captain? Driver? … how Mary escaped from the island and I was forced to sit there listening politely and pretending this was all brand! new! information! that I hadn’t memorized down to the last detail when I was 10 years old. Then, when we got off, Terry had the absolute audacity to turn to me and say, “That was really cool, getting to hear the story from someone who really knows it, wasn’t it?” I MEAN…seriously, bruh…

I suppose Terry’s comment, though, is at least proof that I’ve been passing myself off as a relatively normal person in the years since I first visited Loch Leven as a child (I remember a fellow tourist walked past me and said, “Mary had hair that colour too, you know,” and I spent the rest of the day puffed-up with importance over my completely imaginary ‘connection’ to the dead queen…). I haven’t been obsessed with a historical figure for years now, actually. Now that I’ve been reminded of this one, though, I think that if I ever get bored of writing ‘real’ books, I might just start writing Mary-and-Bothwell fan-fic instead…