WILD EYES & RESTLESS WINDS

We’d taken refuge in the harbour. Westerly gales and westerly swell roared east across the Pentland Firth, the notoriously dangerous stretch of water situated just north of Scotland. Even the tide was emptying from Northern Atlantic to North Sea – everything coming from the west and going to the east.

Harry, my travelling companion, had suggested an afternoon reset in the relative calm of Scrabster harbour. Time to sort the van, time to dry the clothes, time to get out of the wind. Hidden beneath the glowering Caithness hills, we repurposed this place as our tranquil haven despite the abundance of poured concrete and stacked fish pallets, etched with the indecipherable names of Scandinavian ports we would never visit. We stood craning our necks at the sky and watched dizzily as thick, alabaster clouds shot eastwards above us.

Passing through a bell-chimed door, framed by two smoking punters with jackets pulled tight; we exchange a handful of nodded pleasantries before ordering a round