A few years back, a few friends and I went on a camping trip to the Scottish Highlands.

It was tough going, the weather was unforgiving and the terrain even more so, but the trip

was an overall success.

No one got hurt, no one got lost, nothing remotely unnerving or scary happened at all.

At least until the last night, when we arrived back in the small Scottish village we were

due to catch a bus in.

We were physically and emotionally exhausted by the time we arrived back in the small,

highland village that served as our line of departure.

Five nights in the mountains will do that to you.

We had barely slept and barely eaten, so the sight of a small, greasy spoon cafe almost

brought tears to our eyes.

We drew stairs from the locals and to be honest, I don't blame them.

We were a mess of bloodshot eyes and greasy hair.

All of our clothes wreaked of smoke from huddling around a fire at night.

They were curious, but still friendly.

The owner questioned us on our trip and took a great deal of pleasure in our fascination

with the Highlands.

It always earns you brownie points with the locals.

When you tell them they must be tough, hardworking people to live in such a barren place.

We left with full stomachs and headed to the nearest and only pub in the village.

They were equally welcoming and even stayed open an hour or so later than usual, just

so we would have somewhere to keep warm until our late night bus was set to arrive.

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