In Search of Blackrock
Bob heard whispers of a nice wee cottage in the highlands, to where photographers flock in all seasons and in all weathers, so thought he must pay it a visit.
That's where the problems began. His new chauffeur, an eastern European by the name of Comrade Satnav didn't seem overly capable of getting the most from the on-board driving assistant.
So, shortly after leaving deepest Ayrshire, Bob nodded off, fully expecting to be awoken a couple of hours later somewhere in the RannochMoor/Glencoe area of the country.
He actually came to, more than four hours later, with Comrade Satnav shouting at the top of his voice, that Tommy was rubbish and he was going to be ejected from the car.
Seems that Comrade Satnav had decided to christen the on-board driving assistant with the name of "Tommy"
Anyhow, to cut a novel down to a pamphlet, Clashnessie, up in the north-west, is where the good Comrade and I ended up, with him insisting that one cottage was the same as the next.
Bob then took a couple of photos, waited a wee while and took another at dark o'clock.
On returning home, Comrade Satnav was sacked and replaced by the much more efficient blind Ukranian by the name of Sergei.