Wide and spacious is Uecla's country. It is more like my home in Cill Dara than what I would expect to find in Caithness. The air is uncommonly warm here, for Beltaine, and the fields of heather at the edge of the loch are lined with gorse. It feels good to be safe among the affectionate folk at Dún Oíche. I'm overly proud, I fear, for being the daughter of a simple briugu, making such a journey across the Sea to Pretani lands. And yet I know I can hardly congratulate myself. It is no coincidence that I fared well these last months. I have had good company in Uecla and a good boatman in Uurad, though the man is stubborn and incorrigible. More than once he showed me great effrontery by digging into my private things and daring to correct me in the ways to cook bread. Me! A hosteler's daugther! The smug, square-jawed oaf pawed around in my garment pack, supposedly looking to secure any valuables by keeping them on his person. Dolt. And how the rustic's pride was crushed when I caught more fish than he! Ah, that was a happy day for me. I didn't let him forget it for the whole journey. Now, in the company of Etharnan, Uist, Deoord and others, I finally see that Uurad is a poor representative of his people, and I tell him so. He answers me with a smirk and a splash from the remains of his fraoch-ale. I growl and chase after him, the rogue laughing, several strides ahead. I manage to corner Uurad in a stone-walled swale and I jump upon his back before he can climb the wall. I pull him back with a fistful of his long, raven hair, and he falls backward, on top of me. I struggle to get away, suddenly aware that I am pinned. "Just a moment ago, you were desperate to catch me. Now you've got me, and you'll be rushin' off, will ye?" Uurad laughs. "Unhand me, unruly díbergach! I only meant to teach you a lesson for bein' too fresh for your own good, tis all!" I utter through clenched teeth. Uurad only continues to laugh, that dimple in his cheek and sparkle in his eye stirring up more wrath within me. His grip is strong, but he is careful not to harm me. He never has. Why can the brigand not just strike me or speak an unkind word? His charm is a well-honed weapon, but I will not be cut by it. Physical force is not below me, and so I deliver him a crippling kick. Great Brighid, what am I up to? I had better go see to my dear Uecla and her bairn!