We promised to take Mr B’s parents away when they came to Europe this year. Being who we are, we suggested Iceland; after all, there’s nothing quite like taking someone from Australian autumn and introducing them to Arctic spring. This isn’t cruelty; it’s educational. After some uncertainty on account of a spat of poor health (mine), I booked us late flights for a 5-night escape to the northern edge of Europe.

Most magical tale of our Scottish weekend* – being told that if we went far enough up the largely uninhabited** glen, we’d find a lake, and in the lake would be an island covered in rhododendron bushes.

* but only spooky if you read the right books as a child. Looking at you, @helpful_mammal.

** this autocorrects to uninhibited. That would be quite different…

In case you aren’t partial to Twitter and Facebook, the faeries didn’t get us last weekend in spite of their best attempts at Otherworldly mists.

Skye was spectacular as usual. Our cosy and very comfortable B&B looked down on the swoop of heather and peat that descends into Portree, positioned to admire the rain lashing the town below and catch the winds face first.

For windy it was. We laughed in the face of the elements, wrapped in Goretex and a Fiat500, and went exploring.

Yesterday, I had a lovely relaxing day with @katejkatz. Tomorrow, I fly north with my boy to escape over the edge into the wilds.

After a friendly suggestion from BA that we might like to take a trip before mid October, accompanied by that threat that if we didn’t we’d lose our dragon’s hoard of accumulated airmiles, going away seemed obvious. It didn’t take long to settle on Scotland; we used to go almost every year, but it’s been 3 since we last got there, when we nearly (but sadly didn’t) got stranded on Islay by storms.

Last weekend, we went to Wales.

This is no small feat. Although Britain is not really that large and claims to have a modern road system, we have tended to ignore suggestions that people might want to go to the further-flung corners of our green isle. There is no motorway across the border into Scotland, for example. The English M6 stops just short of Carlisle, and the Scottish M74 starts once you are across the border. It’s a little like East and West Germany having different gauge rails during the Cold War, except that (nominally at least) we’re all on the same side.