Not only is the Old Man of Storr
hurling more water at us than we can shake a weather-vane at…
He is also depriving us of food, and drink, and shelter.
Not one of the food waggons we have eyed
with ever increasing desperation has been open.
In our last lay-by
by the ‘lake’,
after we had sort of slept,
as the rain fell,
the food-waggon which had been there
had disappeared when we sort of awoke…
Oh, and rest.
We are both now decidely sleep deprived.
A good job then that our ‘trusty new steed’ is so sturdy.