BY THE TIME WE REACHED the crossing from the mainland to Skye, it was evening. The last shuttle Ferry from Mallaig had already come and gone, and it had been dark for well over an hour. We were exhausted and disappointed, but hadn’t been keen to drive the extra distance north to cross the bridge at Kyle of Lochalsh by that point anyway.
When I spotted a nearby bed and breakfast, I made an executive decision to get rooms for the night. Robin was nearly asleep and didn’t put up much of a fuss, even though I knew the delay bothered her. Neither of us were any good in our current state, but that didn't stop me from wincing as I handed over my credit card. Part of my discomfort was due to the painful conversion from British pounds to Canadian dollars, but most of it was in response to the age
