Stalking Scotland
I STARED at my boots from under my hood, letting it take the brunt of the downpour. A niggling dribble snuck under my jacket’s cuff. The Argo purred and sputtered, breaking into angry roars as it found obstacles, as though it’d love nothing more than to assault the mountain or be thrown into an abyss in the attempt. The eight-wheeled, semi-aquatic beasts are handy tools in rough, steep and wet places.
Sitting and unable to shed water, time was giving collected raindrops an entry to my waterproofs. Feeling a bit dishevelled I glanced up and across the glen. Sheets of rain were marching down, line on line in front of the dimly visible, still spectacular mountain backdrop. Things could be worse. Leaning back into the shower I had to think, “Well, this is fine Scottish weather.”
The Highland Way
As the tyranny of summer overtook back home I was welcomed by cool, wet weather on arrival in Scotland. Headed for the western Highlands I
