My replacement waterproof ski-cum-hiking trousers arrived today, so I don’t need to pack the corset anymore. Supreme-o waistband satisfaction as I swish-swish my way through the Hebridean sleet. Now I have to figure out whether to take the 70L or 60L backpack, since these new comfort pants take up half the pack I was planning to use. With the dry provisions I’ve been squirreling away for the last few weeks, I barely have room for anything else, like clothing. So, bare-chested AND waistband satisfaction as I push through the boggy mudfields. This trip could be called Ski Pants and Sardines in Tomato Sauce: A Hebridean Picnic.

Nazma brought up a good point, that I might want to bring along a pair of trousers that don’t swish-swish as I walk. I’d toyed with the idea of going to a church service on Sunday, since staunch Presbyterianism is such a big part of the culture (with everything shut down, what else is there to do?). But aside from the intrusion my presence would already be, the last thing the islanders need is a Chinese kid rustling away in the back pew, like I’d started a parachute-packing factory in the nave.