The exhaust fell off just outside Glasgow, and we had to drive into the city to find a garage. After that, it was plain sailing, up the west coast, past Oban, and over the sea to Skye.
We camped by some ruins, high above a village, and caught mackerel, and cooked them on an open fire.
I slept a lot, uncharacteristically, and read, and was happy to laze about by the tent. For provisions, we drove to the small post office, mid way between this village and the next.
After Skye, up and up the west coast, then across and back down the east, and finally to Lindisfarne.
Strange secular pilgrimage. White Volvo estate with a dog gate and two dogs in tow. Intimacy and goodbye. We swam in a tern then back to eat luncheon meat and salad in that weird b&b, and giggled to the disapproving stares. Tasted whisky, smoky, with old men in tiny, loughside pubs. Rowed out to the seals, ate mussels and fish, and all the time, I was saying goodbye.
By the time we came back, there was nothing left to say.