"Everybody stares as she goes by'; Cause they can see the flame that's in her eyes"

The island winds thump across the barren land. Beautiful blue skies and greenery below trick the eye. We stand outside of our coach tour bus watching farmers and locals attempt to pull the stuck hunk of metal out of a semi-deep bog. Recent rains created pocket swamps along the shoulders of the narrow roads.

Our coach bus stuck in a bog on the side of the road. The bus driver and tour guide talk about how to pull it back on the road.

When the coach bus and tractor met, one had to move. The bus driver surrendered the asphalt, creating the dilemma. The bus stopped on an angle, frightening its passengers. Those closest to the ground feared the bus might roll. The rest of us buckled up for the adventure. When the tractor turned around, we exited the mighty vehicle, and watched the vain attempts to bring the bus right side. A single double-knotted rope wouldn’t do the trick, even we knew that. They tried anyway.

Eventually more farmers bring out their heavier duty equipment. The skinny tatted bus driver with his double ear piercings grows increasingly frustrated, but remains polite as we take video and pictures of the scene unfolding before us.

A line of local drivers collect on either side of the dilemma, with their attention split between getting home and rubbernecking. We move out of their way. Well, almost all of us.

One older woman stands in the middle of the road, an obvious obstacle.

When asked to move, she loudly proclaims in her American accent, “If I can’t go anywhere, neither can they.” Wrapped in a baby blue windbreaker, she stands her ground.

Eventually she moves, leaving the scene. With a huff, she storms up the road like a child throwing a temper tantrum.

“She’s crazy,” the tour guide says to me, confirming my suspicions that she was the one who earlier cried aloud adamant that she lost her tour group at the exhibit, even though they stood faithfully behind her. He excuses himself and leaves, chasing the lone woman up the hill.

The remaining group stays behind watching an excavator successfully drag the coach bus back on the pavement.

Hours later, my other half and I arrive for dinner in a formal dining room. Though we are dressed casually, a hostess welcomes us warmly and invites us to sit with a fellow patron who is presently dining alone. We accept the invitation and sit by her side. A waiter drapes napkins over our laps and hands us hardback menus. We take them and start our search. The older woman beside us wears an N95 face mask and stares out the window. As waiters approach her, she replies in a gruff manner.

We order our meals as the bread and butter arrives. The woman methodically takes a piece and butters it. Hesitantly, she removes her mask. We are the opposite and dive right in. Conversation inevitably begins when we ask where she’s from. “Southern California, the only place to be from,” she says with an emphasis on the be.

My mood shifts. Ugh, it’s going to be that kind of meal.

She tells us her new friend, Wendy, is supposed to join her.

“Oh, Wendy from Southampton?” I ask, referring to a passenger my other half and I had met at last night's dinner.

She answers civilly, but the tone of that is duh.

She tells us about her day, an excursion she took onto the Orkney islands, but her experience is overshadowed by a specific incident.

My other half and I look at each other as the pieces of a puzzle click. His eyes widen. His jaw drops ever so slightly. I feel my face do the same. We somehow, and victoriously, maintain our composure and listen to her tell her side of the story.

“They need to pay for that,” she said. “It was so unprofessional. That never should have happened. … I just couldn’t stay there. I needed to change and freshen up for dinner. I didn’t leave, I just needed somewhere I could lean against,” she added, her tone adamant.

“Sure, of course,” I think I said, not believing a word out of my mouth, remembering the incident so differently.