My notebook is now sprinkled with phone numbers and flight information, but we’re no nearer to knowing how we’re going to get away from this remote corner of the British Isles. It’s not that we haven’t enjoyed our time away here, but enough is enough. We want to leave.

The ferry journey back to Ullapool seems interminable. When we finally arrive, we make our way to the car, where we try to discuss our options civilly while not in the best of moods. We decide to try the tourist office and end up spending over an hour while an overworked assistant takes time from helping other customers to try and sort us out. All the options turn out to be very expensive, and so we choose the most convenient one – a flight from Inverness to Gatwick tomorrow morning. As we thank the assistant for her help, she gives us a word of warning: “When you drive to the airport, look out for the deer.”

In the evening, standing outside in the cold by the road (because there’s no reception for the phone in the house), D manages to book a later flight home. Adding up the prices of all the flights, the car and the hotel, he calculates that the cancelled ferry has cost us about £600.

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