Northlands.

The Crask Inn lies somewhere between Lairg and Tongue, in the Northern Highlands. It is engulfed by the almost quasi-Mongolian landscape for miles around it.

We pulled up to get some soup and a sandwich. Both doors were guarded by lounging sheepdogs and no light came from within. Undeterred, we found ourselves in the middle of a house, in the dark. There was a small organ, with some sheet music laid out, and a door with a gold sign saying 'Dining Room'. Some muffled voices came from a separate room.

Eventually, some people came out into the hallway. And after the initial surprise of seeing two strange men stood next to the door to the bar in the dark, we were shown to a seat. The landlord, who was very amiable, informed us that he had not yet turned on the generator, which is why no lights were on. His wife popped in, too, apologetically letting us know that the soup was actually finished, but she could upgrade us to Heinz tins of tomato soup if we wanted.

The rain spattered against the window and the fire crackled into life. No-one else was there, and the silence from outside permeated the bar itself, broken only by the lilts of classical music coming from the radio in the kitchen.

Photograph taken near Durness, Theo waiting for me to get back in the car in the bottom right