It was a bad time to fall out of love. For one thing, my husband and I were on vacation. For another, we were trapped in one small room of a bed and breakfast in Mallaig, Scotland, a room already crowded with furniture and figurines.
Mallaig was a fishing village across from the Isle of Skye, where we were headed the following day. “Isle of Skye” had sounded like a romantic destination until I found out that “skye” didn’t mean a vast expanse of blue overhead but was a Gaelic word for “mist.”