We are soaked to the skin, now safe in our tent, luckily the sleeping bags are dry and warm. We have left the world of trees and stunning lochs behind us and all there is for miles are rolling hills of rock and bog.
6:15 – we’ve made a mistake. The wind has picked up and the tent pole is bending with the huge gusts. Dylan checked the gyropes and his teeth are chattering. We are on the top of one of the many hills, so exposed. The tent is flapping and heaving, the rain won’t let up. We don’t know if we should wait it out or pack up and ride back to town before it gets dark in case it gets worse and the tent comes down.
6:45pm – the tent is shuddering. Is it less or have we gotten use to the violent ebb and flow of the wind? We decided to stay, the wind to strong, the rain too constant to be able to pack up the tent without being ripped from our grasp. We wait, muscles ready to leap into action should things get worse, or better. We begin to grow detached as nothing changes. Dylan reads, I cocoon myself in the comforting darkness of my sleeping bag.
7:30pm – the sound is like wild timpany drums, our world, which is the tent, jitters like a crude stop animation. Dylan wonders if a seam will fail. It’s still so light, I feel drawn to sleep. The rain intensifies adding a snare drum to the orchestra.
10:30pm – darkness. it’s definitely worse, the walls bulging inwards, squeezing us…a star ready to implode.
