There is a particular sort of patience required on a Highland single-track road in August. Mr Gunn possesses it, although I should say there are limits. We were on our way to the ironmonger, a perfectly ordinary journey which should have taken perhaps twenty minutes, when we came round a bend and found a motorhome directly in front of us, with what appeared to be most of western Europe parked behind it. It was not one of the modest little campervans you occasionally see tucked neatly beside a loch, but a tremendous white vehicle with bicycles on the back, curtains
