At times like these,
my mind often returns to my beloved mountains. The crunch of the crampons, the sneck of the ice-axe, yes, perhaps I shouldn’t take them to the bar at weekends, but for me, out on the Wild, they are my right arm, and feet, obviously.

If you could only come with me and smell the wind blasting down Corrie An Sneachta or feel the sweet soft rain take your face off, why, man it’s so grand I can hardly talk.

Scotland is not like England. Down there, they argue over rights of access to the countryside, and laws of trespass, and get orf moi land type of stuff. In Scotland it would be hard to get hill walkers and the like to even understand the concept of the argument. They’d just look at you.

Scotland is small too, which means you can get out into the wilderness quickly. Mr Gorilla Bananas would be a great hill walker. What a team we’d make. Tramping the glens, eating off the land, a lamb here, a stoat there. Magic.

Just dreams though, just dreams.