AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR our trip to the Knoydart peninsula was back on. Just days before, David had succumbed to a sickness bug and still wasn’t firing on all cylinders (a small detail we both chose to ignore). The winding road from Invergarry to our planned rendevous at Loch Quoich was a slow and bumpy affair culminating in a stand-off with a big Heilan (Highland) coo who, totally indifferent to my vehicle, was not for budging. I managed to park, but as far as it and his other hairy pals were concerned my car was useful only for rubbing their butts and faces up against (a few days later, the spectacularly swishy poop marks on the doors and giant lick marks on the windows took some explaining to the car wash attendant).
Under watchful eyes I got my kit sorted and divvied my rations whilst I waited for David to appear. He was running late – of course he was! (His words, not mine.) I doubted we’d be on the water for midday as planned. And I had doubts we’d be summiting Sgurr na Ciche for sunset too. Lateness – check. Over-ambition – check. I was now in tow with the male version of me!
STILL WATERS
A small van pulled up. It
