It was getting late and we hadn’t really decided where we were staying for the night.
The day had been superb… again. We had traveled slowly west and, as the road became single track, we entered mountainous terrain quite unlike any I had seen before. Expanses of rough moorland were punctured by solid, rocky peaks… quite wonderful.
The cheery welcome was encouraging, though, as was a fantastic pitch on the cliffs. But the four-man tent was a bad idea. Once standing, it break-danced in a strengthening wind, with guy ropes and poles creaking.
We quickly stuffed it back in its bag and opted for the mountain tent… well, it’s always good to be prepared. The wind, now threatening our neighbours’ accommodation, was accompanied by rain and we repaired to what first appeared a dingy looking bar/restaurant to watch the weather through misted picture windows.
The beer and food were good, though.
We enjoyed a cramped night and felt at sea… wind howled around us, the sea crashed against the fragile cliffs and our tiny shelter rocked, but held.
By contrast, the morning was glorious. We awoke to the tent bathed in warm light and I unzipped the fly watched a stunning sunrise unfold.
We breakfasted royally alfresco and watched fishing boats darting between prawn pot markers pursued by a flotilla of scavenging gulls.