All aboard for a sporting pilgrimage

It’s 10am and I’m suffering already. I’m somewhere well north of Aviemore. We have only been going for half an hour or so and I’m regretting not working on my fitness during lockdown. I’m sure it’s getting worse. This year, for the first time in several years, the altitude, midges, bog and ankle-turning ‘babies’ heads’ — grassy tussocks — have been joined by a new and unfamiliar hazard for these northern climes; it is seriously and unbelievably hot.

I’d chosen lightweight cotton breeks and the sort of gilet worn by the employees of smart London gunmakers and the odd Norfolk auctioneer at game fairs. But these precautions are not remotely helping me. I’m trying to see how far it is to the next burn so that I can slake my thirst — or simply lie in it until I’m cool.

I’m at