When the plane finally hit the ground in Scotland, I let out a breath I didn't even realize I was holding. I guess it's hard to notice basic bodily functions when you're busy imagining your fiery death at 30,000 feet. Annabeth and Rachel were practically glued to the window, acting like we'd landed on Olympus instead of some random airport. Bonus: The airport smelt like plastic and everything thats terrible and fake.
As we stumbled off the plane, we got hit with a blast of chilly Scottish air. After breathing recycled plane air for eight hours, it felt like being slapped in the face by a wet, freezing towel. The sky was that classic shade of "blah," and the green hills stretched out forever, dotted with ancient castles and tiny villages.
"This is incredible," Annabeth said, her eyes shining like she'd just discovered a lost library.
"Yeah," I agreed, trying to act cool, even though I was mostly just happy the ground wasn't a thousand feet below me anymore. "Super incredible. Ten out of ten. Would crash here again."
Rachel, the high tourists, was already snapping pictures like mad. "I can't wait to sketch all of this," she said. "It's like stepping into a different world!"
We dragged ourselves through the airport, grabbed our bags, and headed outside where our car was supposedly waiting. And by "car," I expected, you know, a Toyota or maybe a beat-up van. I'm used to beat-up vans, don't judge.
But nope.
I, Percy Jackson got blessed with a Rolls Royce.
I literally stopped dead. "A ROLLS ROYCE—HOLY HA-"
Rachel cracked up. "Yeah, Dad's weird flex is cars. Just wait till you see the garage."
Annabeth didn't waste time. She yanked open the door and dragged my stunned self inside before I could propose marriage to the car. Once we were packed in, Rachel got behind the wheel, Annabeth called shotgun because she's Annabeth, and I got shoved into the backseat with my dignity.
We cruised through Scotland like we owned it. Ancient stone walls, sleepy sheep, misty hills—basically every postcard stereotype you could think of. Somewhere in the distance, bagpipes were probably playing sad songs about lost haggis.
"This place is like a fairy tale," Rachel said dreamily.
Annabeth nodded so fast I thought her brain might fall out. "There's so much history here. Every stone, every ruin has a story."
Meanwhile, I was just excited we hadn't been attacked by angry Scottish ghosts yet. "Yeah," I said. "Way less rats than New York, so that's a win."
We rolled into a tiny village with about six houses and one café that smelled suspiciously like fresh bread and happiness. Obviously, we stopped. We grabbed sandwiches and tea and sat outside like the wholesome adventurers we definitely weren't.
"This is the life," I said, leaning back in my chair like some retired king. "Good food, good friends, zero monsters trying to kill us."
"Don't jinx it," Annabeth warned, sipping her tea like a wise old owl.
Rachel raised her cup. "To new adventures and making memories!"
After that cringe conversation, we clinked our tea cups together because we're classy like that, the café owner gave us a weird look, probably contemplating his life choices of opening a coffee shop. I gave him sneaky grin, then hit the road again, blasting down through the Scottish Highlands. Mountains, lakes, cliffs—it was like Mother Nature was showing off. Well except Mother Nature was dead so... don't know how that works.
Hours later, we finally made it to Devon just in time for sunset. The town looked like a postcard exploded—historic buildings, cobblestone streets, old men walking dogs with plaid jackets (seriously, its always the old men). I stepped out of the car and inhaled the fresh coastal air, half expecting it to taste like ancient wisdom.
"This is it," I said dramatically.
"We made it!" Rachel chirped.
"We made it!" Annabeth echoed, doing a little happy dance.
Then the chauffeur popped his head out the window like an NPC with bad timing. "Miss Dare, this isn't your final destination."
Rachel smacked her forehead. "Oops, forgot to mention—we're still like, thirty minutes away from my relatives' place."
I stared at her. "You're telling me we stopped in postcard paradise... and we're leaving?!"
"As much as I'd love to stay and take five thousand pictures," Annabeth said, crossing her arms, "we have people waiting for us."
I dramatically slumped back into the car like a melting popsicle. "Fine. Rip my dreams apart, why don't you."
The next thirty minutes were a fun ride of me having a mental breakdown in the backseat. Were Rachel's relatives going to be normal? Demigods? Weirdly intense gardeners? I had no idea, but my brain decided to run a full horror movie just in case.
"We're here," Rachel said, laughing as we finally slowed to a stop.
I hopped out of the car and immediately forgot how to function.The house in front of me looked like a stone pigpen had married a skyscraper, had some very confused children, and then fell over slightly. It was several stories high, crooked, with chimneys poking out at odd angles and a front yard full of gnomes, chickens, and sad rubber boots.
Annabeth blinked. "What an... interesting house design."
Rachel beamed. "Welcome to the Burrow! Come on, you two, stop gawking—the Weasleys can't wait to meet you!"
I stood there for a second, staring at the house like it might sprout legs and walk off.
"Did we accidentally drive into a Dr. Seuss book?" I muttered. And with that, we grabbed our stuff and followed Rachel into the chaos.
Because honestly, when your life's already ridiculous... why stop now?