In my remote far north hideaway, there’s a vibrant red Sutherland sky right outside my door, which I’m eager to become a part of.
It’s over there, by the Rabbit Islands – behind Sinclair’s car, a Subaru.
I rush out to remind Sinclair who I am, what I’m doing here, and where I’m going.
In return, I’m told Everything I Need to Know.
Most of which is mentioned in the walking guide I read last night, but I don’t want to spoil the party and sour the day before it’s even started, so I nod enthusiastically in all the right places and then thank my hosts for building a log cabin in their back garden.
Down the by-now familiar hill, to the sandy village beach at Talmine.
The ribs of the wrecked boat are crumbling in the sea air right in front of me, being slowly absorbed into the scenery.
I don’t want to be called upon as a witness to this.
There are three dogs who don’t see anything, inexplicably; I suppose they’re too busy pretending to be free, much like we all pretend to do, on a morning.
Over to the pier – which I should know by now is a dead-end – and up the path above Dead Man’s Pool.
I can’t see anyone floating, so head onwards toward Port Vasgo.
At the top of the bluff, Alan’s View is panoramic, and surrounded by colourful flowers to boot.
It’s a scene I want to keep alive, so I sit here motionless for a good ten minutes, thinking about not very much except for the joy of being here with the opportunity to think about not very much and with no interruptions or technology pings or notification alerts and all with a damn fine scenic view in front of my own goddamn eyes which I like, a lot.
Forced to move on by nothing other than time – which is as weak an excuse as I’ve ever heard – clinging awkwardly to the increasingly steep rocky coastline … where the sure-footed sheep in their regular bleats I swear are laughing at me.
Down the manmade ramp to the unlikely collection of industrial beachside machinery, remnants of quarry activity from back in the day.
A gate is open. Or, more accurately – fallen down. I leave it as I find it – broken and unusable.
There is not a soul in Port Vasgo, not even mine, and I find this impressively cheering.
Up the hill, past crumbling but functioning houses, is a misplaced sign to Midfield, which I walk past twice in order to see things from a different perspective, and expand my horizons.
It’s got nothing to do whatsoever with having taken the wrong turn and gone down the wrong lane.
Backtracking, here is the hidden loch I was promised yesterday … tens of miles from where the guidebook said it would be.
The water is flowing fast from one side to the other, which is a bizarre thing when there’s no obvious outlet for it. I wonder if there’s a plug.
I amble into Strathan and down to Achininver Beach, where my guidebook guarantees I will be found alone. Which is a strange comment for the guidebook to make … why am I being found, and who is finding me?
It’s quickly apparent that the writer absent-mindedly forgot to mention the sheep and the cows, all assembled on or near the sands, and who know the tidal activity way better than I ever will.
There are patches of billions-of-years-old sand for me to stand on and contemplate becoming a shepherd.
After a few minutes, the cows are done with their mid-morning team-talk in a huddle on the other side of the inlet and, one by one, sometimes two by two, wander off towards the rocks for elevenses.
It’s a bovine parade, one for the farmers.
I find myself sat on the picnic bench surrounded by barbed wire … a weird feeling, with farm animals slowly beginning to encircle me.
Makes me wonder … am I the one who’s being unwittingly shepherded and penned in? Was that vivid red sky this morning my advance warning?
It’s all I can do to turn to shepherding myself, and surpisingly the sheep do indeed go where I want them to – away from me.
After a longer-than-expected coastal hike, I end up back at the cabin for brunch … and amazingly no sheep or cows have followed me.
Or certainly, none that I can see.
Yet I can’t see the sea from here, either … I can only hope it’s still there.
Busted by Sinclair at 1pm as a cabin-squatter, the road south beckons with signs from the sky, mainly in terms of where the sun is.
The stiff breeze tells me to move on.
Ignoring redundant technology, I take the wrong road, which is the long way around to Tongue.
Past the Lennon / Yoko car crash scene, clinging mistakenly to the Kyle of Tongue, with views of the forgotten Castle Varrich perched on a promontory in the far distance; a gothic shed.
This is where a Jacobite rebellion was plunged underwater, the result being that the local cows here are apparently totally loaded, blinged up with gold hooves and gold chains and gold nose rings.
Amazingly, we thank the French for this.
Yesterday’s cake is enjoyed in the shadows, of Bens Loyal and Hope. They’re looking moody … perhaps something’s going down I’m unaware of. Maybe I should have shared my Bakewell slice.
Time takes me backwards to Croick, an isolated hamlet where church windows have been repeatedly graffitied and scratched by the local folk from the 1800s: the Wicked Generation, the Glencalvie people.
This is an eye-opening reminder of the Highland Clearances, until such point where my wide-open eyes become increasingly watery due to the heartbreakingness and heartlessness of it all.
An eeriness in the still air is overtaken by sudden cold gusts.
A noise on the breeze, and further spiral scratches of words in another church window, all telling me there was murder here in the 19th century.
The whole scene sends me to shivers.
That freezing north-westerly is unsettling the long-buried residents who were busy resting up, and things are starting to move; and yes … they find me alone.
The leaves on the trees are rustling ever more noisily in sympathy, so I take my cue and flee the churchyard and the whistling graves.
I take the river back to the road, and it’s not long before I’m headfirst into a real world scenario – a queue of traffic on a curved bridge.
I land in Newtonmore, which is one for the cats … the wild ones at that.
I eat my evening meal – a fish pie – with a gratefulness for being here / for being anywhere.
Soon enough, after a few fresh beers, time begins to fly by in a blur of general ignorance.
There is no view from where I’m sitting, which is in the middle of a crowded room at a reserved table, surrounded by time-travelling humans who don’t get it.
Maybe I should have entered the pub quiz, after all.
An Outside World 