We all enter the breakfast room smelling of kelp. Yeah we’re all in this together, we’re all sea dogs now.
We’re kelp colluders. They’ve well and truly got us – hook, line, sinker, the works.
Up in the Highlands, I’m slowly coming around to the idea of going around the bend; more so when I declare to the innkeeper that my room number is the answer to the question “Would you like a pot of tea?”
Thereafter, I enjoy my hot Scottish breakfast in silence.
When in Ullapool, I shop in high-end delicatessens. As the next ferry load of humans and their detritus rolls in, I head off with some urgency in the opposite direction.
There is a road going north, and I take it, although not for very long.
A side road is a twisting ribbon of single-track tarmac, going up hill and down dale, running past gothic mountains which are framed by my car windows.
Eventually, I awaken at Kirkaig Falls, having somehow blundered my way through a morning, and stumble along a broken path, zombie-like; like a ghost going through the motions.
There is a dog who recognises my sort, and wants to walk right through me, or at least all over me, muddy paws and all. This is not the first time this has happened.
I’m doing all I can to stop sinking.
The lone deer on the ridge above is unimpressed by my presence, but still mildly curious.
Rushing water all around me; the trees can always be counted on for their loyalty. Plus, they aren’t going anywhere fast.
Above me is blue, a section of the sky which smothers the lower parts of the atmosphere and turns it. Small birds fill this space frequently, darting in and out in a mid-morning performance.
At the falls is a whole load of rushing water, and I clamber on down the sheer drop of rocks to meet it. I am mostly ignored by the nature in front of me. Though the swooping blackbird is a bit nosey.
Bizarrely, the deli I visited earlier saw fit to give my sandwich a name, so I enjoy Rachel on the rocks, in the privacy of nature. The crashing waterfall I wasn’t expecting when I ordered my lunch, I will admit.
At least no kayakers this way come.
Returning along the meandering path, the secluded loch I was promised has disappeared. Which I guess is why it’s described as secluded.
Turns out it was behind me all this time, and no-one thought to tell me. Were the wildlife telling me? I don’t speak their language. Not at this time of day, anyway.
On the rocky and muddy route back, I’m all over the place. Pretending to be confident and assured, I think people can see right through me. At least I’m mostly waterproof. Mountains and the distant sea know the score.
On arriving at something looking like civilisation, tea is served to me by an unimpressed local, who’s had enough and is imploring anyone who will listen, including the dog, to go on holiday someplace else.
I decline the sales brochure, having been underwhelmed by the sales pitch.
A moody-looking man in a peaked cap then takes some hard-earned f-olding from me, at a cabin window, in order that I can leave. And I’m thinking … what … ? Am I at a train station?
All part of the experience, apparently. No wonder folk want to escape.
Around the spectacular coast and into Lochinver, a favourite haunt … a petrol stop and a gourmet pie shop, where everyone who lives within a 100 mile radius has decided to have a late lunch today, served up in pastry.
They’re pie-eyed, this lot.
Quite rightly I leave the joint with-pie, and a significantly lighter wallet.
Further along the jagged coastline is a beach – Clachtoll – and further up again is Raffin Point, windswept yet keeping the Old Man of Stoer well-hidden, in case his crimes are uncovered.
Time is eluding me, as is a break in the weather; a backtrack is the only answer to a question I’m doing my best not to ask.
With delaying tactics fully evident, I even stop to mull over how a public toilet is funded. I can’t drop one off, because the cubicle is closed.
Even the WC is telling me I shouldn’t be here, and so I leave, belatedly.
The winding road north to Kylesku is a slow rollercoaster. The curving bridge is populated today by groups of workmen in high-vis bibs … all clinging to the left side, as if that’s where all the air is.
I speed onwards to a destination I don’t yet know about.
Between 6pm and 7pm, I find myself moving around in circles – a lot.
Mainly by a remote beach with a wrecked ship, close to the bewildered locals and the village dog, all of whom are wondering why the person in the blue Volvo who arrived not so long ago is stood in the cold dark twilight with a puzzled look, waving around a smartphone as if it is a divining rod.
I go down the hill in mild exasperation to press a buzzer. No-one ever told me this would be necessary.
With some success, a friendly lady appears in front of me who knows all about my overnight hosts Sinclair and Shirley, and their hidden cabin around the back of their hidden house, unseen from any road.
I may still be on course to appear in a Nordic noir, after all.
Although I’m not at a crossroads. I am by a blue picnic table and a red letterbox.
When I finally pull into my final destination for the day, Sinclair knows exactly what’s going on. He can quite literally open doors for me, for which I’m very grateful – if only so that I don’t have to endure a night in the haunted hostel.
A welcoming cold beer greets me in the cozy warmth of the private lodge, along with a family-size bag of chips, which I fall into.
Shortly afterwards, a venison pie, which is under my ownership, flies out of the miniature oven and onto a plate, whereupon I devour it without any hesitation or accompaniment, except for the 1840s reproduction map of Sutherland on the wall next to me.
There are mysterious howls and intermittent bangs outside, which is the film production going on just beyond my door (or so I try to tell myself).
Despite this, heavy sleep descends from above me, rising only when the galeforce wind briefly threatens to dislodge me.
An Outside World 