“Strange. It has always been a very favourite name of mine. I don’t know why at all. I never knew any Alan I had a crush on. I don’t remember any Alan in a book I liked very much. And yet I’ve always been kind of fond of that name. Oh well, we mustn’t stay chatting here. I’ll have to get back to Glenbogle. So, I suppose it’s good-bye, Mr Macmillan.”

“James and I will walk with you as far as the end of Glenbristle.”

“That’s very sweet of you.”

It was even harder for Myrtle to scramble back down to the level where the two little green tents were pitched. She had to hold the bard’s hand almost all the way.

“I told Miss Royde we would walk along with her as far as Glenbogle, James,” said the bard.

“And we must walk very quickly,” Myrtle added, “or I’ll miss the car.”

It was already a quarter to one when Myrtle and her escort reached the signpost at the entrance to Glenbristle.

“I’d love to have you walk along with me a bit more of the way, but I think the sight of you both in Glenbogle might stir up trouble,” she said. “And I do want Mrs Royde and myself to have the pleasure of visiting you in your cave before your provisions run out,” she added to the bard. “Tell me the name of it again.”

“Uaimh na laoigh.”

“I do think it’s the most melancholy sound I ever heard. I’m sure the poor calf it was called after never managed to make such a heartrending moo when it wanted mother. I’ll have lots of fun trying to have Mrs Royde tell me what it means. Will you Write it down on the envelope with your address?”

The bard obliged.

“And those three words make a noise like that?” Myrtle asked in awe. She emitted a melodious groan. “Is that anything at all like it?”

“Ooav na….” the bard choked. In his endeavour to make the ‘laoigh’ sufficiently guttural the ‘gh’ broke away from the preceding vowels and entered his windpipe.

“Oh, you haven’t sprained your throat?” she asked anxiously.

“No, it’s perfectly all right. As a matter of fact ‘laogh’—that’s the nominative—is one of the great test words in Gaelic pronunciation.”

“I’ll say it must be. I hope there’s a more comfortable word for ‘veal.’ Otherwise, I think one’s table manners wouldn’t be considered too good. Well, I suppose we have to part. Good-bye, Mr Buchanan. I won’t see you again. Good-bye, Mr Macmillan. Mrs Royde and I will try our hardest to visit you in your cave. If I were you I’d move right up there now just in case Ben Nevis goes on the warpath in Glenbristle.”