Quicker than driving..

I’ve made it - to the vision I clung to in the hell of Glasgow Airport, when I promised myself an early retreat involving arriving in Stornoway, getting a taxi to my hotel, and lying on the bed drinking tea. It seemed crazy to allow myself to be sucked into the airport (why so many going on holiday? They not got jobs?) on such a lovely day, escaping several hours later onto an alarmingly small-bore plane with leather seats so worn that they had bottom-shaped indentations. The flight felt short, beginning with the realisation that we were flying over familiar terrain near home, and proving conclusively what an impossibly indented coastline contains the West Coast of Scotland.

I had to wait for return of a taxi from another trip before I could get to The Crown Inn - the place where the 14 year old king eluded his minders and bought a cherry brandy has welcomed me in for the night. I’ve done my Italian and when this done I may just go to bed.

Blip taken over the south end of Skye, with what looks like the bridge from the mainland. I was blinded while landing, as the sun was to my left. And now … sleep be ckons.