The Old Man of Storr.

I'm on a photographic holiday, so I went out to take some photographs. The fact that, while the rest of the U.K is basking in glorious weather, the Isle of Skye and all points west have had dull overcast weather for the past week, and that today it was hissing down was largely irrelevant. I've gone to a lot of expense and trouble to organise this holiday, so I'm bloody well going to enjoy myself. In retrospect, I might have enjoyed today a little more had I thought of packing a light-weight tripod. The two and a quarter mile hike from the car park to the The Old Man took me up a climb of very nearly 1,000 feet and back in one and three quarter hours - with sceptics telling me that “You won't get any photies up there mate!”

It was odd that although there was a steady stream of people on the lower slopes, to the extent that some keen young lads intent on a quick run up to the top and back gave up, there were very few on the upper sections. It was such a test of endurance that one portly, but game gentleman insisted on giving me a hug as I was setting up the tripod for the Blip; it wasn't a peasant experience - but then - who was I to deny him his moment of triumph.

By the time I had reached the car, the rain had eased and, as I approached The Quiraing (first extra), the sky was brightening a little, not very much, but the slight change was appreciated. I arrived there to see vast hordes of the Eye-phone brigade oozing out of a coach and advancing on the cliffs at the right of the picture, where-as, it was my considered opinion that a short walk in the opposite direction had much more promise; there were hills and everything instead of a view over the coastal plain from a great height.

Back at the hostel, I mused over the use of of a rusty, anatomically correct bull in all his glory (second extra) to decorate an establishment known as “The Cowshed.” It's not exactly a name designed to attract customers but, I have to say that it's a very comfortable and friendly place to stay.