But here was Fort Augustus and the Crew got ready to sound the last trump.

‘Take off your sou’wester,’ said the Mate.

She blew and better blew, but no one answered that last impressive summons.

‘A poor show for Fort Augustus,’ she said, ‘and it with a monastery.’

We tied up alongside the wooden landing stage at top of the five locks and I set off to find what was wrong. The lock-keepers were down at the bottom end awaiting the great event of the day, the arrival of the Gondolier, with her cargo of tourists from Inverness, and though that paddle steamer was not due for over twenty minutes—and did not appear for half an hour—our small craft must wait until she had come, and climbed, and passed. As we were going nowhere in particular, we did not mind the wait of two hours. For it had stopped raining for the time being and we wandered about this open little town which has arisen around the ancient fort.

There is still some of the old wall left, though in place of the fort there is now a Benedictine Abbey, with a school and green lawns, and we watched a black robe floating out behind a cricket pitch roller. Peace here now.

For Fort William, Fort Augustus and Fort George are no longer required as Hanoverian outposts of civilisation to keep the Gaelic barbarians in check. Which, taking all things by and large, is maybe a pity.

The lock-keepers said they were sorry about the delay and did all they could to make our transit comfortable. Tourists watched our descent. While the last gate was being opened, I got the engine going, for immediately beyond was the bridge of the busy main road already swinging to let us through. Just the sort of moment for the engine to show off her trick of social satire. And for a little we struggled together, for she obviously wanted to spite the waiting motor-cars; but at last she thought better of it and we sailed away.

As Loch Ness opened before us the rain started again, and soon it was coming down straight and pitiless. The Crew was putting a new spool in the camera, for there was talk of the Monster. ‘I should like more than one photograph of him,’ she explained. But soon she and the Mate went inside to cook some food.

There was no life in the water underneath. On the calmest day at sea there is always some movement, a faint swell, a restlessness. Here the engine went plugging solidly on, and the way seemed long; though I knew this stretch could be stormier than Loch Lochy. I also knew that it was deeper here than anywhere in those western seas we had travelled or seen, for one has got to go far into the Atlantic to get the depth of some 130 fathoms recorded off Urquhart Castle, the favourite haunt of the Monster. I had once tried to illustrate this depth by saying that if the earth were raised or the waters dried until the North Sea vanished and one could go to St. Kilda on foot, there would still be deep water in Loch Ness; but the illustration was considered complicated.