Urquhart Castle was once the stronghold of the Grants, but the Grants were even simpler than Wallace. A few of them out of Glenmoriston agreed, after Culloden, to surrender to Cumberland’s written offer of free pardon. But once Cumberland had got hold of them he forgot his offer, and had them promptly tied up and sent to the hulks on the Thames. One can imagine Cumberland’s expression and even his possible words: ‘You thought to save yourselves, did you?’ It is difficult to forgive the Grants for such credulity in face of such an enemy.

Perhaps my thoughts were a bit gloomy, like the landscape. Though in a moment one saw there was no mere gloom in the landscape; rather some quality of fantasy, near and remote; and one could readily imagine a traveller from a flat country being so deeply impressed that he would have searched for elements of mysticism in the inhabitants (the ‘Celtic twilight’ is hardly a native product).

But there is little mysticism in sailing home a boat and suddenly it came to me that I should take her to Bona at the north end of Loch Ness, where a yachtsman lives in a wooden house by the water. He had been very helpful when I was fitting out, and in his spare hours from his town business, he deals in boats; which is about the next best thing to sailing them on new seas.

The Crew and the Mate appeared with some hot food, which the gentle rain cooled.

‘This is very dull,’ said the Crew.

‘What?’

‘This calm water.’

‘The rain is taking off,’ said the Mate.

So I told them my plan.

It was voted sound. The Crew had promptly an irrational affection for the boat, but, as I pointed out, the important thing for us was the discovery that living on a boat was cheaper than living in a house.

‘For one thing you don’t eat so much,’ said the Mate, when he had made sure where the horn was. But the Crew merely went in to begin packing up.

Castle Urquhart was now behind and in front the smoke of a vessel which turned out to be a drifter going west, so I moved towards him a little to get his wash. The skipper leant out of his wheelhouse and we saluted each other. I must have been wishing him good luck or envying him, for I forgot to warn the Crew. As we pitched, she grabbed the nearest support in astonishment.

‘The Monster!’ we cried. But she was not deceived.

We came abreast of Tor Point and went slowly towards Bona and the white house of the ferry, where we dropped our anchor in less than a fathom of water on the Dores side. As we looked around the sun came out, warm and brilliant. We sat in it until my friend appeared from Inverness, and, after a proper seaman’s welcome, dispelled all doubts and difficulties over the laying up of the Thistle.