No fish, but big hills. I had to swallow pride and walk up my first paved road of the trip, even walking I felt almost horizontal. Paul, the gardener’s, eyes would have twinkled to know he was proven right.

Then there was that moment where I thought “oh I’d like a warm bed and shower now”, I think Dylan may have felt it too. We were back at badcall bay and the midges came early, biting dylan on every bit of bare skin. “oh, they don’t tell you ’bout the midges in the tourist brochures”, an Irishman in a pub had gleefully told us back in Sussex, now we knew what he was on about. There was a reason the fish were in a feeding frenzy.

For me it was the ticks, tonight we’ve tweezered the third out of my poor delicious skin. When I mentioned there were ticks, the builders cried “oh don’t get bitten you’ll get Lyme disease”, Dylan assures me builders think in worse case scenarios.

It’s beautiful here, but I have to admit to myself that it would be all the more scenic with a bed to ride home too. Perhaps we’ll save the camping for France. Oh well every adventure has to have its bumps, let’s see how we feel in the morning.

Actually it was a beautiful sunny day again, aside from the bugs I really shouldn’t be complaining. I’m slightly concerned about how much joy I get from watching livestock munching grass in a field, perhaps too much time with my own company!

“Dolphins, get up, run, dolphins near the hill” dizzy from sleep I pulled on clothes and staggered out into the bright sunlight. Dylan was already on top of the hill waving his hands in urgency. I chambered up, and there were the fins gliding up and down in the bay, occasionally jumping into the air. A whole pod, enjoying some fishing under the first bluish sky we’d seen since arriving. A lone seal starred up at us from below.

My solar charger and I sat on a rock and began recharging our batteries. Warm sun and happiness, but perhaps I needed the grey days for this to feel so good.

Dry at last and with the slow puncture finally dealt with, the hills weren’t defeating me. The black treacle of yesterday’s lochs now more of a silver blue. Then splash, splash, splash. The trout were rising, like we’d never seen before. Dylan is on the scent and a fishing license obtained and a picnic lunch delivered he is off up to his calves in icy water.

Those who speak of the romance of a baguette on the bank of the seine, have they tried a loaf by a loch on a cushion of moss? Cheese and bread never tasted so good, a gentle, teasing breeze, gossiping birds and the water sparkling like a lady dressed for the opera. Shall I dare hope for a trout for dinner?

Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo. We woke to the gentle pattering of rain and birdsong that called up images of an old ladies cottage, all clocks and clutter.

We had made it, and the fears of the night melted away, we patted the pole of our tent as we would a faithful steed, who had seen us through the most treacherous trails. Our first night wild camping was a success.

The view out the tent was beautiful, but the cloud clung grimly to the landscape unwilling to let go. One night of damp was a fun adventure, a whole week would be a soggy grind.

We rolled up and down hills, the up more of a huffing puffing boot camp for me, Dylan calling back, exasperated, that I should calm down and enjoy it. Thank you for the tip, ex-semi-pro cyclist. I concentrated my enjoyment on the rejuvenating descents and pullovers.

Fat baby lambs lolluped beside the roads, next to bleating mothers. Each had a red or a black spray paint splotch, which I feared was the mark of doom. They were like pups, rejoicing in the world, curious and certainly thirsty for mother’s milk, practically knocking their mums over with their greedy gulps.

The grass too was covered with curious black slugs, damp peaty grass their paradise.

The rain began again as we searched for a camping spot. In Scotland you can camp anywhere as long as it is not too close to a house or livestock. We found the perfect place, it involved some carrying of bikes over a rocky beach, but this protected little cove with its mini runoff waterfall was idyllic.

Our tent formed a Zen window of waves and golden light, rain ceasing, and could that be? Our first tiny patch of blue sky.

5:45pm – the rain really began to set in around the time we got stuck behind a whole herd of cattle. They starred quizzically at us, a wall of impenetrable beef. Finally a 4wd came thundering down the single track in the middle of nowhere and the cattle parted before it.

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.