Wheres that twit going....

From the moment I embarked on my voyage to the northern most parts of Scotland things never really went according to plan (when do they ever). It all started with an announcement on one of Richard Bransons phallic transporters that the train had lost power somewhere near Crewe, famous for its station and boarded up housing. Almost eight hours later and more changes than I care to mention I arrived at my first port of call which also happened to be my birthplace Carlisle, the Great Border City (apparently).. It wasn't long before I realised I had left my almighty carbon fiber Gitzo tripod on the train destined for Glasgow. Quicker than a tail-less squirrel I stole/borrowed my fathers car and made for Glasgow. Approximately two hours later I had reached my destination with the realisation I had no clue where the train station was. After exploring every nook and cranny of this historic town I eventually found the station, located the mighty Gitzo and made my escape for the border...
A few days later I loaded up the hire car and made my way North. I had decided on this occasion to be totally self sufficient and camp my way around the un-explored (for me) coast of Scotland in all its autumnal glory. A beautiful drive through Loch Lomond down to the Mull of Kintyre where I crossed over on the ferry to Isle of Islay (pronounced eye la)..... Upon arrival to the baron wasteland I was greeted by a vast wet darkness and was reminded of the scene from Withnal And I when they where trying to find there holiday cottage, only I had to find somewhere to camp.. I would like to think of myself as being quite experienced in the art of Bushcraft and Survival but trying to put up a tent in a hurricane on a night as dark as an espresso would test the patience of any calm soul, such as moi... But alas, an hour or so later I was inside my sleeping bag with my camera beside me (and tripod) looking up at my orange emergency glow light and listening to the rain on the canvas of my tent which sounded more like falling gravel... After several hours of semi consciousness I noticed the interior of my tent, complete with emergency orange glow stick, had a thine layer of mist hovering above my sleeping bag. Upon further examination I realised although quite warm, I was also quite wet, in fact I was soaked thanks to the rain seeping through the bottom of my tent, and no I am not a bed wetter... And so there I lay in my own little puddle waiting for day break and wishing I had never been born (very dramatic I know)... After the worlds longest night I arose from my watery grave the next morning to a bleak, dark lifeless landscape. My fears of a scene from The Wicker Man where nothing compared to what confronted me. The large format photographers three worst enemies Wind, Heavy Rain, And Bugger All To Photograph...... I had to move on, and so I made my way to the ferry port the dried cured sausage for breakfast repeating on every road bump.... Wipers on full I raced to the port, but the misery was only to get worse when I was told the ferries where all cancelled until Monday due to severe weather. Now this wouldn't of been so bad had it been a little dry and not been WEDNESDAY. Safe to say that this was one of the longest, wettest and most miserable five days of my life. BUT, on the fifth day the clouds parted and the sun came a shining, everything was glorious once again and the Island seemed strangely beautiful. ...Twenty minutes later the happy sun disappeared followed by lots of shouting with words like 'stupid Island' and 'I hate Scotland cause the foods crap...' But my friends that's not the full story because what happened in those twenty minutes more than made up for the five days of soggy pants and nights of asking myself why....

The mystery continues.