Eleven elated elderly escapees eventually ended up at our rendezvous point despite
copious voice mails which arbitrarily circulated the ether and further mystified us as we got mislaid in the mist.
We were on Portmoak Moss. You’d swear that the fog whispered ‘ I’m Scottish, I’m a Haar!’ We noted misty sheep, bales of hay appearing to roll toward us out of the mist as if to clear us off their patch. There were eleven of us, so could we form a cricket or football squad, and what would we call ourselves? We settled on the Elawi 11. It was that kindly of mystic experience, contrasting with the pleasure to see the fog rising up the surrounding hills as the sun warmed the earth.
Our navigation skills were further tested as we collectively struggled to come to terms with the sparsely located finger posts towards Lochend Farm shop cafe for vittles.