RSS FeedsNorthern Excursions. The Highland Adventure May 2006. Day 4.
by Andy on Wednesday, May 17th, 2006We soon arose and started packing up our stuff with the intention of leaving early. The morning was quite beautifully doused in morning sunlight and freshened from the rain.
The morning after a night of torrential rain. The bothy in all its glory.
I felt like I could live in the bothy. It was a place of my own. A place to be with my thoughts, my skills and a couple of companions. It was a place free of clutter, a representation of clarity, simplicity, space and freedom. The rules were set by nature, the game was there to play for any animal that wished to test it.
I decided that a wash in the mountain stream was in order which coincided with a bike washing session. I stripped down to my boxer shorts and used a “clean” sock as a flannel to drench myself in the cool refreshing water. Surprisingly I dried off quickly in the morning rays of sun, even though it was still quite cold. I used a handful of marram grass to scrape the gritty conglomerate of oil, peat and dust out of the cassette of sprockets on the rear wheel hub and scrub the chain and used the sock to give it a general rinse over. There was a definite sense of satisfaction from cleaning my trusty steed. A need to maintain my mode of transport which had become a part of my survival. It had got me here and I needed it to get out. Just like “Wilson” out of the film Castaway with Tom Hanks, my bike was my friend. It was my Mr “Cannondale” Jekyll and I was Mr Hyde. We were a team working against and with each other in equal measures to gain forward propulsion. A combination of bodies to create joyful friction, tumbling assisted by gravity in symbiotic ecstasy. I held the bike under the water to wash off the dislocated muddy residue and wheeled it back to the bothy where Tom was cooking porridge and Mark was hanging his still damp clothing outside the bothy. Tom exclaimed “The porridge is almost ready.” Then appeared brandishing a saucepan of pure fuel for the human body. Tom ate first, as the cook as you can see below, sporting his criminal long-johns, enough to scare an open minded Swede from forty paces.
The look of delight on Tom’s face in consuming the gooey matter says it all, especially the way he is savouring every drop. Note, the army boots and light blue Long-Johns are not standard issue but a careful style selection. Notice how the sky blue colour complements the clear blue sky.
A stunning day. Man returned to his natural habitat.
I was able to light a roaring fire in the morning as I noticed a piece of burnt out firewood in the bothy, which I cracked open with a large rock to reveal dry splintered wood inside making perfect (albeit fast burning) firewood. I set up the fire with the last firelighters I found in a box hidden in a bucket full of rubbish with some scraps of paper and arranged the wood in a teepee shape around it. Soon there was a blazing fire which we took delight in warming our cockles against and attempting to dry a few items of clothing and baking our shoes a wonderful brown colour.
The fire in the bothy. Tom rubbing hands ferociously (yes, that is what he’s doing). The engravings above the fireplace are from previous visitors. Most visitors, I got the impression, went up there with a huge amount of booze and supplies and partied like hell which sounds like bloody good fun. I was able to keep the fire going by adding the fuel I had sorted from the ash the night before. It kept burning until we left when I put it out in line with bothy regulations
We had faffed around enough by that point and set a time to leave. We rushed to pack up and eventually set off about twelve fifteen. The next part of the ride was a tantalising prospect for anyone who would call themselves a mountain biker. It contains hours and miles of singletrack snaking its way down through the mountains hugging and traversing each hill in its path. The terrain ranged from just about ridable to incredibly technical. The track was just about wide enough to navigate successfully and make progress with innumerable rocks and tufts of vegetation jutting out to make it more treacherous. Dabbing was a constant part of the riding. The track set off fairly flat but soon changed into a steep short climb requiring intense concentration and out of the saddle controlled pedalling mixed with a bit of track-stand trials-style bike manoeuvring. The track regularly crossed small streams which either had to be jumped or had stone crossing built for walkers. The track swooped down and tinkered its way around teasing the anticipatory senses and mind. Occasionally one would catch their foot on a tuft of grass or a rock and would have to regain control and balance. Tom was finding the going tough. Mark was enjoying it. He had changed into his shorts and a thin long-sleeved top and was hot on my heels, stopping occasionally and remarking on the technical nature of the terrain, the beauty of the views or how the bike was faring. The views were incredible. This, for me, was the most beautiful part of the journey. The scenery was very dramatic. There were mountains all around us and we were following the path of the valley to travel away from that place which was not meant for humans or many animals, or for that matter plants, to thrive. Blanketed hills in closely cut grass gripping the hillsides inter-dispersed with slippery scree slopes. Mountain goats and sheep roamed freely, natural mountain climbers amidst their native habitat. I continued on down along the thin rocky tracks. Each brow of each hill presented a new challenge, getting progressively more technical as the ground became more and more slippery due to the increasing presence of moisture and flowing water as we lost altitude.
As you can see from this image my bike had the towel wrapped around the handlebars. Our bikes were laden with our equipment and not as manoeuvrable as usual whereas this terrain was probably some of the most technical I had ridden considering the circumstances. Although I felt it was within my ability and I revelled in the challenge I knew at times I was pushing my limits. I find it a tribute to my/our minds ability to react in such a situation with many variables to consider. The track wasn’t really ‘a track’ as such, more a possible route through unnavigable terrain.
We steered the bikes over huge boulders, between jagged sharp rocks, and through foot deep sections of hidden bog under puddles. The track varied between being about one foot wide and a metre wide although most of the time, there was only one ridable line. It was a case of hit the right line or be cut off in one’s tracks. The valley became deeper as the persistence of gravity and erosion over millions of years with more and more intensity into the mountain side was apparent. The mountain streams started to converge and the stream became a river. It disappeared into the hillside and we temporarily departed from it only to be reunited in the image below.
As we descended further one can see the enormous scale of the terrain. We descended on the left on this picture above where we are standing. The track zig-zagged down an incredibly steep rock garden. With a fully laden bike it was the most memorable downhill I have ever done. The bike see-sawed it’s way down like a rodeo. Controlling it required exact shifts in weight and reactions at the right time or it really was serious injury or death. I was buzzing with adrenalin and excitement and cheering myself on. I couldn’t believe I was riding it. I was sweating pure adrenalin, or at least it felt like it. I was snorting like a possessed, rabid animal, fighting like a fish trying to free itself from a fisherman’s net to avoid the clasp of the ground’s slippery rocky hand crushing my body on impact.
The last section you can see just above us in the image. It crossed a stream about two feet away from a one hundred foot drop into a rocky waterfall plunge pool. My heart was in my mouth resisting the pull of vertigo to huck (throw) my meat straight off the vast drop into a rocky, watery grave. I picked up a pinch flat at the bottom riding a little bit too enthusiastically through this bit. Although the view wasn’t too shabby for mending a puncture, that’s for sure. The landscape could quite easily be the wart-ridden back of some mystical giant creature lying dormant with every animal including us feeding like parasites off it’s surface.
Mark riding the treacherous last bit of the hairy section of downhill.
I stood and mended my puncture next to the waterfall. Tom seemed like he was in the flow now and continued to press on. Mark also pressed on. I spent ages with the crappy pathetic little pump pumping my rear tyre up. I swore as it seemed like more air was leaking out than going in. It was about as productive as stuffing fleas into a polystyrene supermarket bag. Finally when it had reached the high pressure needed to sustain my weight and the weight of the kit I stood for a few moments, absorbed and appreciated the awe-inspiring surroundings for a last few moments allowing my arms to recover from the intensive workout. Then I looked at the trail ahead and continued after the others, full of confidence from the last descent but making sure that I was not feel too cocky and go and ruin it all and get myself injured. The potential for this to happen was ever increasing as we became more tired. We were hungry too because we had run out of snacks and only eaten a small meal the night before of smash and packet flavoured rice. I could feel the pangs of hunger coming on and knew I was getting close to running on empty. With mountain biking one can carry on like this, and it seems fine. However, its not too long until you start making little mistakes and you can’t understand why which enhances the frustration and annoyance. This in turn means you are burning more energy being annoyed so it is a vicious circle. I luckily found a couple of bits of dried fruit which helped me along. Its amazing what a little bit of sugar does when the body is running on low like a fly feeding on honey.
The track became more ridable as we continued. I did start to make more mistakes as I began to get tired. I knew at this point if I was back up at the top I would have had a lot more trouble riding it. It took it out of me mentally and physically and I felt it pushing my mental limits. I broke through a boundary that day and that’s saying something considering the amount of riding I did in Croatia (in excess of two hundred off-road miles a week for four months) and general fitness training. It felt really good to be able to make progress like that with my riding. Its the ancient instinct of digging deep inside to survive and travel across land and terrain, anything life and the earth can throw at you.
We started to near the lowlands. It was such a relief to see the river run flat and meander its way along. I got a real feeling of having done an amazing thing. I had cycling across a mountain pass from one lowland to another completely under human and bike power. Its that feeling of being a human which has evolved to use a bike to travel like that. A bike is incomparable with other forms of transport. It is quiet, requires no fuel (apart from food for the rider). It is repairable with a small amount of tools. It is very durable and able to carry weight. It enhances the ability of the human. Its probably the fastest way across the mountain pass which doesn’t involve a helicopter. You couldn’t ride a motorbike or a car across there, there’s just not enough connection with the landscape or ability to react to the landscape, so it would be cheating.
To add to the beauty of the situation, the sun beamed out over us. At the last bit of the downhill each one of us was in a world of their own. I was at the back and remember paying more attention to what the other two were doing. I was really impressed with the progress Tom had made in the terrain and Mark was making light work of it which was admirable considering he was using a hard-tail with no rear suspension and my bike had six inches of suspension front and rear. The singletrack snaked its way traversing the hill down to the river which was flattening out. We crossed over a bridge across the river and set the bikes down on the other side. We sat and ate flapjack enjoying the wonderful sun and the spectacular surroundings. We had ridden an entire mountain pass and seen the gradient and topography progression and seen the entire progression of flora and fauna as we gained and lost attitude. We were also leaving a very small ecological footprint. Our journey across the mountains took us from Drumnadochit and the Straithglass area, past River, Loch and Glen Affric. I felt warm and tingling from the endorphins release during the exercise combined with the sense of achievement, fresh clean air and soft- padding grass cushioning my back as I sat and rested.
It was a common phemonomon for me to have music playing over in my head. The strangest songs would present themselves to me in and almost continuous loop of often a small part of a song, just an instrumental bit or most infuriatingly an individual lyric. For example such a song that had been in my head at that point on the descent was Simply Red - If you don’t know me by now, then you’ll never, ever, ever, ever know me. My brain would completely over illiterate, over-act and expand this line until it became it’s own twenty minute long orchestral limerick. There was an expansive list of songs that went through my head and surprisingly the others experienced it too, about which I will go into more depth later. However, I had recently watched the film ‘Touching the Void’ and the main guy off that who had fallen into the crevass and managed to get out (Joe Simpson), whilst he was crawling down the glacier he said he had a really obscure song he had hated going over and over in his head by Boney M (a cheesy eurodance, pop, and disco group). Maybe its the brain’s way of keeping the body moving. A constant need to get away from one’s self. A bit like some kind of twisted reverse carrot on a stick psychological approach.
We didn’t wait for long there. Tom seemed still itching to get on and full of energy. The sun decided to disappear behind some clouds and the temperature had dropped The track traversed down into the valley next to the river as it widened and flattened out. It then joined a doubletrack by what looked like a bothy but I think was a mountain rescue centre. The doubletrack was flowey and fast. Fuelled by adrenalin and novelty of a less technical track where one didn’t have to focus on every rock we made fast progress. I swung my legs round in a furious gyroscope propelling my mass forward flowing up and down splashing through fords of water running off the mountain splitting flocks of startled sheep who gingerly dispersed and vacated the track in my path. After about fifteen minutes of enjoyable pedalling I reached a gate out onto a road and a small gathering of buildings. This was the activity centre which had been marked on the map. There were a couple of people milling about around the centre. I waited for the others at the gate. Tom and Mark promptly arrived looking dirt speckled. Tom checked the map and we deduced that we were to take the road here. I felt disappointed at seeing other people again. I was enjoying being away from civilisation and didn’t really want to see people who had been swallowed by society milling about. I felt like I’d really made a movement towards something more pure that would inevitably be returned to at a later date. Society for the moment would unfortunately have to be returned to in it’s familiar, safe form.
We rolled down the road and passed a caravan site where people were lazing about enjoying there late breakfast and reading the paper outside their mobile homes. I couldn’t help feel contempt for the waste of life I saw. I saw apathy, laziness, conformity. Well to be more accurate, part of me felt these things and the other half could empathise with the situation that the people I saw were in. A few years ago I would have found it hard not to feel just contempt but now with a little more life experience there are a lot of variables that can make people choose a route that would make them end up taking caravanning holidays. I will say no more on the subject and let you the reader ponder this some more without trying to analyse or explain things too much considering much of this is down to my personal perspective and situation at the time. I felt like a great adventurer emerging from the wilderness. My animal instinct felt more a part of my being. I was a lion and they were lower down in the food chain. It is up to the individual to make choices about their life, to ‘make’ their life, however existentialist it may sound. Although people follow whatever route their situation and experience causes them to accept and thus where they end up.
We enquired in the reception of the caravan site about spare gas and supplies. There were Mars bars in the small wooden hut. I had to stop myself from paying by bank card and being charged one pound and twenty five pence for the convenience in order to purchase a luxurious calorie containing chunk of caramel filled chocolate. Luckily the promise of a more densely populated store located further down the road managed to curb my enthusiasm. We continued on at pace coaxed by the prospect of sugary food, drinks and Ginster’s sausage rolls. After a few minutes of pedalling we reached a junction where the road we were on joined the main road (the A87). The view ahead of us was out onto open water over Loch Duich and across the water to the far mountain side and the Ratagan Forest with the hills either side of us gradually succumbing to the water-scape. The area was adjacent to the ‘Five Sisters’ mountain peaks.
Stocking up with supplies from the small shop we bought a spare gas cylinder and some wholly sensible supplies for the hardy nights ahead apart from some treats including Lucozade, a refresher bar and a snickers. After eating these things I felt like I was going to vomit or pass out, the amount of sugar I had just ingested. There should be a government health warning ‘do not eat directly after leaving the wilderness, sugar overload will occur’. I greedily stuffed down the sickly sweets. The small shop contains all-sorts of different tourist-orientated items. It obviously got a fair bit of business with it’s location next to the road. It contained all matter of Scotland memorabilia with more tartan than one could shake a stick at and it’s fair share of pointless tacky tat.
The next task in our journey was fairly daunting to say the least. At this time I was feeling pretty tired and empty. The mountains closed in around us, like a giant wall, forcing us to take the routes of least resistance. Our destination again was unknown. Having previously not been able to make the distance, underestimating the off-road speed of our journey, we didn’t know where we would get to. However, there was plenty of nooks and crannies to camp on the side of the road, although I didn’t really feel like doing this considering the appalling quality of my tent. It however, was the most likely option considering the circumstances. We had decided to miss out another mountain pass after realising it would involve climbing a mountain (Sgurr an Lochain 3282 ft) which we at the time didn’t have enough supplies to do or time to complete what we wanted to do in a week. Although the challenge was still mighty and had been. My legs ached and had a dull feeling about them from constant exertion. I felt mildly undernourished from the lack of proper food. However, I felt far from down and out and in fact, felt surprisingly energised. My body had begun to accustom to the routine and my metabolism adjusted accordingly. My two associates also seemed in high spirits and with the prospect of riding on the road chomping at the bit to make some good progress. So we saddled up. Most of the chat between us at this point was ‘matter of fact’. For example, ‘we are going this way’ or ‘that is my snickers’ or ‘did you get a gas canister’, with the occasional quip, mini-joke or token of absurdity. I stopped and starred for a second admiring the view across the water. I felt like I wanted to go back and investigate further in the future.
On the road Mark pressed ahead, we tried to keep in each other’s slipstreams and swap in order to conserve energy. This however, didn’t work that well because Tom complained a great deal about the pace. This was unsurprising because I had a lock out on my frame creating basically an efficient hard-tail and Mark was on a hard-tail whereas Tom’s suspension bob would take energy out of his pedalling. To begin with we made good progress and it was downhill. I gasped at the beauty of riding full whack through the highlands, the road surrounded by mountains. It was incredibly windy and soon we were dealing with a full on fifteen miles per hour head wind coupled with speeding traffic screaming past every five seconds causing the bike to wane off-course temporarily. The road flattened out then started to climb through forest. Visibility was good up to the road ahead which made it kind of worse because we could see what lay ahead, e.g. A huge, thigh-muscle-tearing climb, cranking slowly in middle cog at the front and big cog on the back, gasping for breath. My bag straps dug into tired shoulders. I pressed forward tensing my body’s muscles, gritting my teeth and squinting my eyes in determination. I knew the only way was to keep going. This was what cycling is all about, determination, making progress, the open road, and beautiful scenery. Tom seemed to get a second wind and drove forward holding fast on my tail. He was pissed off with the pace and my will to continue at the existing pace however my main concern was to stay as a group. Eventually it came to a head and we argued about it, another old classic Tom / Andrew feud temporarily reminiscent of our teenage days. However, the event soon blew over, I apologised and we continued on.
Mark was dragging behind so after a few more minutes of trudging along we stopped and waited next to a mountain stream which was cascading over green algae next to the road. In most places I had been happy to drink the water up in the mountains. However because it was next to the road there was something off-putting, something one could sense that the water there was affected by the pollution from the road. Mark arrived and we shared a tongue-in-cheek joke about the difficulty of the riding. It was weird because after all the time riding off-road my arse was really starting to get sore now. I periodically stood off the seat or perched my gluteus maximus tilted off the side in order to give it partial respite. The road seemed to climb for what seemed like an eternity. We passed the mountain that we would have crossed, had we stuck to the original route, on our right. It was an absolute monster. The peak was invisible shrouded in fog with just some evidence of snow to be seen indicating the cold temperatures and need for additional gear which we weren’t carrying. Besides it was a challenge for another day. The road dipped into a fast downhill then skirted a hill, climbed and did the same again higher up. The road possessed a gradual gradient gently rising away from the lowland. I had broken away from the other two, riding at my own natural pace we had agreed this was a good plan. The others weren’t too far away however. We had spotted a potential spot in a forest to camp by the next loch which wasn’t too far away in the Forestry Commission Cluanie Forest. I reached the brow of the hill. It was quite busy with cars. The view unveiled itself to me across the vast expanse of the loch, and with it came a brisk blast of stormy wind. I free-wheeled down the gradual hill relaxing and letting the air blow through me, and over me. Ahead, around one kilometre I could see some flags and the possibility of an Inn. Initially I wasn’t akin to the idea of spending a lot of money on a hotel but once we reached La Cluanie Inn, we couldn’t resist. We managed to barter a good discounted price on the rooms and a place to store the bikes. The journey had yet again presented another twist and the prospect of staying in a warm hotel with hot food and whiskey was enough to make my heart race at the thought of it. Besides it blew the other option of camping in a damp wood right out of the water. So here we let the evening begin feeling like Kings.
Initially I sat on the step outside the big white hotel thinking this isn’t right, we’re not supposed to be staying in hotels, what’s going on? However, I was knackered, my knees and thighs feeling tired, I was cold, hungry, and about to get very wet as it started to rain large droplets of icey water. Mark and Tom disappeared into the hotel. My mind allowed me to take a back seat in the situation. Probably a call for help and a sign to take to easy for the night being a good thing. Mark was the diplomatic negotiator with Tom in close succession trying to get a good deal out of the hotel on our limited budget. It was nice to be with people who didn’t mind using a bit of personal skill to their advantage, rather than moping about expecting someone else to do it. Mark emerged after a few minutes with a negotiated price of thirty one pounds each. I almost cried at this especially when it was going to involve putting it on my card because I owed Tom money and Mark was broke. However, I did have one job more than the other two and eventually thought sod it, may as well, I could spend my money on worse things.
There was a shed down by a maintenance yard at the back of the hotel where we stored the bikes after we had agreed the price and booking with the ‘Manuel-Fawlty Towers’ equivalent handyman, dogsbody, of the hotel. This guy was skinny, balding, thin, with a sinuous muscle-toned face, gangly, broad Scotland accent, friendly, welcoming, straightforward, polite and hospitable. He, I must confess reminded me of the Scottish guy off The Simpsons ‘grease-me-up ginger haired complete stereotype’. This although slightly wrong did add to the immediate authenticity of the experience. Ironically a false image of authenticity.
After locking the bikes up in the shed amongst piles of cut plywood, sawdust, and workman’s tools I was fairly happy with their security and retired to the room. We actually had an entire building to ourselves which stood separately from the main building (they probably did this on purpose due to the smell). We were in another white stone-blasted, white-painted, Georgian-era building. It had all new fittings and furnishing inside, in a flowery country house, Fenwicks home-store style, pine furniture, and pictures of highland landscapes and rustic maps on the walls. No sooner had we got inside the building than it really started to chuck it down outside. There we about four beds in the room, it was a huge place, we had done very well considering the financial damage. It was also toasty and warm and contained a television, tea and coffee making equipment, and an en-suite shower and bathroom. As soon as I started to undress and get cleaned up I realised how badly I smelt. My clothes were filthy and damp. I collected up any clothes that needed rinsing and gave them a clean in the bath and hung them on the radiator to dry. We then had much needed showers. I cleaned myself about three times to remove the ingrained dirt and stayed in the shower until my skin had gone wrinkly.
We changed into dry clothes and hung all stuff out, getting sorted, bantering amongst ourselves until we were ready to go to dinner. I sat on the sofa feeling cosy in my dry clean clothes, looking outside at the torrential rain driving against the window pane, feeling great, glad and relieved to be inside and not slogging away on the tarmac. This was a decision where the investment was paying off dividends immediately. The contrast between the harsh environment outside and being inside made the situation even more satisfying. Tom was using a hair drier to dry his clothes and generally warm himself. Mark was lounging on his bed grinning from ear to ear. We took our time getting ready to leave for dinner then realised that if we didn’t get ourselves in gear, we’d miss it so soon sprung into action.
The reception area of the hotel was full of cabinets with ornaments, hunting trophy’s, and landscape pictures. We walked through and into the bar which was a glorious cosy room. It had dark mahogany wood panels on the walls, red carpets, pictures of the surrounding landscape by local artists on the walls, and most importantly a hugely well stocked bar containing one hundred and sixty whiskys and fine ale. We found a seat and sat down in excited, salivating anticipation of the food. My caution with money had been temporarily put on hold as I scanned the menu. A reaction somewhat similar to going shopping in a supermarket when feeling hungry and spending over-budget buying what one fancies instead of needs. My eyes soon spotted and settled on the classic traditional ‘haggis, neaps, and tatties’ after clarifying exactly what it was from Tom and the waitress. A national dish of Scotland, composed of a forcemeat of the heart, liver and lungs of a sheep mixed with oatmeal, well seasoned and put into bags made from the paunch of the sheep. The haggis is then boiled for 2-3 hours and left to get cold. When required for use it is simmered again for about an hour and is traditionally served with mashed turnips, potatoes and whisky.” The accompaniments, “neeps and tatties”, refer to mashed swede or turnip, and potatoes (in this context, mashed.) Tom bought some ales, specifically ‘Blavey ale’ which was a full-bodied, deep, dark-coloured bitter not dissimilar to an Adnam’s (Southwold) Bitter. Tasting the ale was like pouring honey down my throat, it was beautiful. A fine, dense, full-bodied, draught, a classic slightly fruit, mildly smoky taste. The food arrived and it was a glorious conglomeration of pure meaty, stodge and carbohydrate fuel. It was eaten far too quickly and I was tempted to have the same again, had they not closed the kitchen. After eating we conceeded it would be rude not to have a couple more drinks and sample some of the whisky. We sat at the solid bar, it was indeed a benchmark construction by which other bars should aspire to, possibly constructed from bog-wood or taken from the hull of a seasoned ex-galley-ship. Petrified timber preserved ship-wrecked on a Scottish beach only to be unearthed by a devoted local and lovingly constructed into a bar at which he / she could sit at after a hard day’s toil and savour the life-blood of the valleys- the singlemalts.
As you can see.
We sat and chatted at the bar and the handyman-guy from earlier arrived as we were well into sampling the whiskys, having chatted up the barmaid and ordering a few for ourselves. He spoke with great authority on the different whisky, the locations of the breweries and their individual qualities. For example; peppery, fiery, peaty, smoky, wood, and ranging from a raw strong taste to a mild soothe taste to mention a few of the qualities he spoke of. However, the slightly macabre but interesting thing was that he had had an accident whilst drink-driving when he was twenty one and had since been banned from driving and therefore never touched another drop of whisky although he still held great knowledge of the different types. I found it hard to believe he could hold true knowledge without actually trying them although each held it’s own qualities many of which could be ascertained through smell, looking at the texture, colour, production methods, source of water, distillery, and evidently talking to other people and reading about whisky. I had a Littlemills ‘whisky of the month’, Tom had a Talisker and a Laphroaig, I think Mark had the same as me amongst others including Balvenie . We each probably inhaled more whisky than we drank which went straight to the frontal cortex for maximum effect, like a dribbling crack addict with a cold. It was an excellent evening exchanging jovial banter and eventually returning slightly blurry eyed to our beds for a night of sleeping like road-kill.