No one I had spoken to had even heard of Knoydart. I washed up on its harbour in the early hours of the morning, in a murky, late-Winter fog. The ashen sky reflected the colour of the water and painted the roofs of a handful of buildings which lined the road a little way ahead. Behind them, the earth rose at a steep incline, thick with firs. Beyond, there loomed snow-dusted peaks. I turned around to see the Atlantic waves wrestling. The little ferry that I’d rode in on was already in retreat, back to the mainland of Scotland. The wind changed, whipping my rain-soaked hair into my eyes, and I was temporarily blinded. Yesterday morning in Glasgow, I had told my landlady about my plans. She had suggested I visit the Isle of Skye instead. I made my way along the harbour, headed for the foothills which marked the beginning of my walk into the wilderness. I had already cheated: the internet had told me that the proper way to arrive in Knoydart, which is inaccessible by car, is via three-day hike. I cared little. Both heartbroken and broke, I was 350 miles from home and had just two days to spare. All I craved was comfort in natural beauty. On dry land, an old wooden notice board was pasted with out-of-date leaflets from the previous summer. A poster for the Old Forge pub flapped in the wind: ‘the UK’s most remote pub’ it read, offered folk music and a warm fire; a legendary, Celtic refuge for out-of-town walkers and residents alike. I walked on. xxx That evening, my mind and body gladly worn out, I rested in the only pub on the peninsula. It nestled close to the rocks of the shore; I watched the slate waves drive into their sharp edges. Clutching my pint glass of amber ale, I listened to the discussion going on around me. The relatively recent owner, a Belgian hotelier named JP, was describing how his new Old Forge would be a culinary destination. He had invited a photographer and reporter from Edinburgh, in the hope that the coverage might whet the appetites of potential visitors from the capital. Tall and wide, he took up most of the space behind the narrow bar. He posed, his pint glass aloft, one large arm scooping the slight shoulders of the bartender beside him. Another guest leaned on the bar. He was an older man with a cockney accent but the confident affect of a local, and I wondered what had brought him here. He wore a beret, had a white beard and a drinker’s enlarged, rosy nose. The photographer, clearly keen to capture this eccentricity in his story, had taken a shine to him. ‘I like you best!’ he exclaimed, while the man grumbled and rolled his eyes, and the lens shutter rattled. Later, I approached the man in the beret to ask him for a cigarette. As I rolled it from his pouch of tobacco, I learned that JP’s management of the Old Forge was controversial among Knoydart’s humble population of 140 people. Apparently, he refused entry to muddy clientele. He neglected the historical significance of the place as a shelter for ramblers and travelling musicians. He wanted to modernise the cooking – and to charge twice the amount for it. It struck me that JP was trying, desperately to transform a place that didn’t need to change. I looked through the window, at the photographer, who was battling the elements to capture JP in front of the sea, his apron billowing. xxx The next morning, I woke early and headed on the 20-minute walk from my bunkhouse to the harbour. The night’s storm had swept away the mist and the surrounding hills were an earthy palette of rusted iron and copper. Pools of sun-licked water winked at me through the bracken. When I reached the harbour, I saw the perfect, azure sky had stretched itself over the mossy mountain-peaks, protecting this patch of the inner-Hebrides. Below, the crystalline sea lay flat and still. The place couldn’t care less about your reasons for being there, but somehow provides everything you need, when you are.