It was now after eight o’clock and the Mate and I decided that if we hurried we might get some business done ashore. Once safely clear of the Thistle, we called to the Crew that we should be expecting a good supper. She came and looked at us and, words failing her, blew a blast that made the trees shiver.

It was over a mile and a half to Invergarry Hotel, and when we arrived there we could not find the entrance marked Bar. But I knew this peculiarity of Highland hotels, and searching round the back premises we came on a door that led through a dark passage down which we stumbled until we pushed suddenly into a bare room where the working men of that district were having their pint. (In Fort Augustus we failed to find the Bar altogether, but then we had left ourselves only a quarter of an hour to look for it, though we were assured in the luxurious lounge that there was one.)

As we had never overcome a reluctance to drink the water straight out of the tank, we found the draught beer excellent; and the company was friendly, with talk of fishing and bees and crops. One small oldish man had taken a drop too much, but they bore with him good naturedly and with an attentive politeness. Even when the talk had the utmost cordiality and warmth, there was always this reserve of good manners: a sort of instinct against exhibiting oneself and against intrusion. It produced a pleasant atmosphere wherein sober talk and laughter jostled each other naturally. The Mate was moved by it to remember the Crew, and the dear old lady who served us answered him hopefully in a low and confidential voice. We had to wait by the back door so long that we were giving up hope, when at last she appeared from the high and inner sanctum with apologies for delay.

In this contrast between back door and front, there is no institution more typical of the Highland social scene than the Highland hotel.

As remarkable a contrast as between the fresh water and the salt, which it took us some time to get used to. There was no concern now over filling the tank. One dropped a bucket overboard. But we could not remember the absence of a tide and frequently surprised ourselves strenuously hauling up the dinghy.

We stayed the week-end, and on Sunday set off to explore the tale of the ivied castle. The country is heavily wooded and the undergrowth lush. Wild raspberries weighted their bushes with a dark red ripeness. The rain had gone and we wandered down by the old bridge where there is a simple and effective war memorial and some obviously sound salmon pools. But the water of the Garry was too dark to spot a fin or a tail.

No one, however, can stop the traveller looking, though in these keepered regions the fish take on something of the untouchable quality of the holy water beasts of ancient Egypt.