A night in Broadford

Last night wasn't so bad. I got drunk enough that the heat in my room didn't bother me anymore, although neither did the midges unfortunately, and I woke up absolutely pebbledashed with bites. I had a great evening chatting to and drinking wine with some of the guys from the hostel, and I've totally overcome my fears of meeting people in Scotland; I was very concerned about racism towards me being an English person, but a large proportion of the people I've met since being up here has been either English or American. Even in the local Co-Op here in Broadford I kept my words mumbled and to a bare minimum to avoid sneers, as the people, especially the woman in a permanent mid-sniff behind me in the queue, looked small-town-like and judgmental. Turns out she was English as well. As was the cashier. And everyone in the local. Where have all the Scottish people gone?! The one Scottish person I actually did talk to said that there had been an influx of English people buying up cheap cottages over the last few decades, which I'm sure has caused some underlying resentment, but on the surface at least has built a heartwarming and comforting integration.

My body is exacting its revenge. No more mountains for me.

On the way to Skye

The end of the day. The end of the good weather