The Wrong Island.

“Hi, this is Stuart Owen, just calling to let you know we’ll be on the four o’clock ferry to Iona.”

“Sorry?”

“Stuart Owen, my Dad and I are booked in to stay with you tonight and tomorrow.”

“Oh no, that’s next week.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s next week I’m expecting you Mr Owen, the 9^th.”

“But it’s a walk, I’m going to be half way to Glasgow next week.”

All this on the pavement outside a tearoom in Oban, half an hour before we were due to get the ferry to Mull and then on to Iona.

They say that character is forged in adversity, and if anybody’s character could do with a bit of forging I guess it’s probably mine, so this is the sort of situation which I should be grateful for really.

If you’ve ever tried to book accommodation on Iona at this time of year, or indeed anywhere north of Loch Lomond at this time of year, you’ll know that it’s not easy. It had taken a lot of phoning round to find anyone who could give us bed and breakfast, and now I was a week too early for them, and there was no room in the inn – in fact, when it comes to Iona, I’m not even sure that there is an inn.

Thankfully, the rather nice hotel (and spa) on Mull that we were due to be staying at on Thursday evening has been able to take us in. We’ll go and pay a visit to Iona tomorrow.

The apprehension that I’d been feeling since Friday evaporated the minute I arrived in Glasgow, and now I just can’t wait to get started. Indeed, I’ve been having something of a battle to keep my vanity in check. All morning I wanted someone, anyone – the taxi driver, the guard on the Stansted Express, the man at the oversize baggage counter - to ask me why I was going to Scotland, just so I could reply, “To walk across it.” Before my ego ran completely out of control, I found myself reading a newspaper story about someone who’s preparing to swim across the Atlantic, which helped me to regain a sense of perspective about this pilgrimage.

Without wishing to appear ungrateful for his support, I ought to finish by putting on record the very foolish remark my Dad made as we were driving up to Oban. We were talking about things which it would be a real pain to discover we’d forgotten to bring with us, when Dad chirped up, “Actually, I don’t think I’ve remembered to bring any midge repellent.”