From Perth to Inverness

It had been my intention to stay on the train, without bothering about arriving anywhere: sight-seeing was a way of passing the time, but, as I had concluded in Istanbul, it was an activity very largely based on imaginative invention, like rehearsing your own play in stage sets from which all the actors had fled.

I realise that I have to go home before heading north. So, another two unnecessary car journeys later, I’m at Waverley exchanging National Rail Vouchers for train tickets.

The man ahead of me in the queue, suffering from a hard life and too much alcohol, lost control of his bladder. While the woman patiently explains which platform his train left from, a puddle grows around his feet. He squelches off, unhindered and unhelped, while a member of staff ropes off the area and goes for a mop.

At Inverness bus station, I discover that the online timetable is wrong. There’s no bus to the airport for hours, so I’ll need a taxi. At the airport I’m given an orange C3, which propels me into the night and delivers me to Avoch, where Ailsa has rustled up a huge pot of veg curry.

We drink a couple of beers and talk. To be fair, Ailsa does a lot of the talking. I sift through her housemates CDs - finding that most of the ones I choose are scratched.

Tomorrow there will be logs to stack - a busman’s holiday.