the loch keeper’s daughter

I grew up in Mòrar. Well — mostly. We moved to Edinburgh when I was about eight or nine, but we were still back every couple of weeks.  It’s one of those places — you walk into the shop, end up staying an hour ‘cause you bump into five folk you haven’t seen in years.  It’s home. Always has been. 

My dad’s the loch superintendent. If he fancies the title. We always laugh about the “super” part — we’re not sure why it’s not just “intendant.” But yeah, he’s looked after the loch as long as I can remember — fishing permits, boat rentals, making sure folk aren’t doing anything dodgy.  Very outdoorsy job. Very him. And if there’s anything going on at the loch — charity swims, strange sightings — odds are, he’s involved somehow. 

Summers were the best. We had the boat, so if the weather was good, we were out swimming, or drifting along the shore, or visiting family friends who lived all around the loch. It’s just one of those places that gets under your skin.  Peaceful. But also... something else.  Bit eerie, if the weather turns. 

When I was wee, Dad used to joke if we saw a rock in the mist — “Maybe that’s Morag.” ’d laugh — till the fog rolled in and I was sat in a wee boat thinking, “Right. Time to go home now.” 

I remember once — I was about eight or nine — we were up on this track with a view over the loch. He had binoculars in the car — proper ones for checking boats and fishing spots. 

And I saw these two long shapes in the water. Thought maybe trees. But then they started moving. Not floating — moving. 
Dad looked, and for once, he didn’t have an answer.  Stopped the car. Took a photo. Said, “That’s strange.”  Which, if you know my dad — that means something.  That’s the only time I ever saw anything I couldn’t explain. 

And then there were the stories — endless stories. At the angling club, at the pub. 
Ewan — he’s seen her more than once, apparently. Total believer. Didn’t care who thought he was mad. 
There was a woman across the loch who said she saw Morag weekly. 
People ask if I think she’s real. I’m on the fence, to be honest. 
Some say she’s just a giant eel. Others say dinosaur. 
But the way people talk — especially the older folk — you can feel the story being passed down. Like they’re telling it just the way they heard it. 

I love that.  That in a place like Mòrar, storytelling still means something. 
It’s not about selling mugs or getting famous. It’s just part of the place.