NW Lewis.

This is the only truly hot day we caught, and we spent most of it in Stornaway.

There we were tempted by a small pub on the sea-front which boasted the fact that it was the oldest pub in town, on a small blue plaque by the door. Perfect, we thought, I wonder if it has a beer garden - we needed to quench our middle classness as well as our thirst for the golden gift of Tennents.

We stepped into that stereotypical, rural pub situation, as the cast of the Star Wars Cantina craned their heads to get a glimpse of the strange chumps who've just walked in. It fell silent, and I could offer only a quick nod before rushing to a seat where we silently looked at each other, trying to remain unfazed and natural while telepathically trying to sum up whether the other wanted to stay, or not.

The bar chatter, resumed, discussing some roadworks going on somewhere up behind the road where one of them lived: "what a f'cking waste of money, the on'y thing it'll being put in for is the pissing geriatrics up the road... Joan!... Joan!"... "Aye?!"... "There's someone wants served"...

...

We packed in with the school kids heading out to the west coast. I noticed that the kids, as I once was, were at an age of transition where your main source of contact with your old, locally situated friends, with whom you spent most of your younger years was on the bus back. Those old friends who become ever more distant.

The campsite we stayed was £2 a night and was owned by a Mr Donald Matheson, dead-ringer for Bilbo Baggins, his Hobbit-hole had more of a 60s feel, though.

At least we found that elusive beach...

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