For a change we travelled to the guest house across the mountains on foot. This was quite a departure from our usual means of transport, normally tandem over the single-track roads. As the route became steeper and steeper we marvelled at the post vans that overtook us on the dirt tracks, as well as the enormous inflatable that floated over the peaks above us. The latter was shaped as a fighter jet, and attracted the attention of every walker following the upward path. When we eventually reached the summit we expected to find a plateau with a steady road leading back down the other side into Timsgarry. Instead we found ourselves poised on a knife-edge ridge. Beneath it was a vast rocky bowl of a valley barely visible through the swirling mist. A young man commented that his girlfriend nearly died of fright when she looked down below, and I replied that I understood why.

Somehow we made it down to the village, although it took a while to find the guest house. RG had sold BnC and moved into larger premises that were easier to manage. We were appalled to discover that there was a television in our room and that all meals were optional. The next day we were in for an even greater shock. The whole Uig area had been identified as a holiday hotspot and a number of oil barons had moved in to build huge Moorish-style bungalows that now dotted the coastline. There was even an Ibis hotel, and it was here that we took our breakfast, along with CO.

Meanwhile holiday-makers Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin were agonising over the future of their children Apple and Moses.