Another world

Was it a dream? I'm not so sure. Dreams are seldom as good.

The dream begins on Friday night, as we speed North. I mean really North. Go up to Inverness, follow signs for North. Hold your nerve as the welcoming lights of Ullapool pass you by and keep going. It's worth it. I promise.

We finally pitched our tents in the midnight gloaming somewhere North of Lochinver. We'd left the clouds back in Aviemore, so now each improbable mass of mountain stood stark against the dusk. Still sticky with the grime of a week's work, we began to clean ourselves from the inside out, breathing in that rare air, pushing the smog of the real world away. We retired to bed weary, wired and slightly nervous.

The next morning we're peering over every cliff edge, worried that we'll miss it. We're all but swimming through the fog, trapped in our own tiny bubble of visibility. All of a sudden, there it is, scowling at us through the mist and daring us to climb it.

We'd arrived at our objective for the weekend - the Old Man of Stoer. I don't know if it was the insidious fog, or the 60m of overhanging rock, but it looked far more intimidating than I expected. Looking at it from the approach cliffs you really understand the meaning of the word 'awesome'. At the bottom, we drew lots to see who would have to make the swim over and before long I was plunging into the icy cold brine so I could fix the line for the others to cross.

There's no gear here and these holds are shit. This next bit looks steep. Fuckfuckfuck. Hold it together Steve, it's only a VS. Take some deep breaths and think about your feet. There you go. Now go for it.

As we sat smugly on the summit, the fog eased away letting the sun through to light our smiles and revealing the endless blue Atlantic. We'd done it. Still elated when we'd reached the bottom, we threw ourselves into the sea and baked ourselves in the sun. We swarmed to the top of the nearby hill where we lay silently gazing at what seemed like infinite beauty, listening to the skylark work through its manic songbook. Later that evening, we pitched our tents in our own little paradise amongst the otters and the seabirds. We cooked on the open fire and laughed the laughter of four great friends on their own great adventure.

As the roads get bigger and more busy, so the swoop of the windscreen wipers get more frequent. It's time to head back to the real world. Back to the rain. The dream is over, but you smile, knowing that it was better than any dream, and looking forward to the next one...