Here it is again: that famous photo of Sheep Shit Hill (why do we never learn the proper names of things?), on the Isle of Seil, with a winding brown trail leading down the hill side on the right. That trail is the trench left by Willie's arse when he tried sliding down on his poncho and it and his kilt flipped out from under him. He was regimental at the time, and the resulting abrasions were not a pretty sight, not least of all for their location.

Of course, in order to get to the Isle of Seil, we had to cross the Atlantic ocean. This is the bridge that does that. Looks kind of steep, doesn't it? Let's put it this way: if Willie ever puts Frank Sinatra doing "Come Fly with Me" on the player, put your seatbelt on, grab anything solid, and prepare for takeoff, because the bus will be airborne by the other side of that hump.

Up in the hills above Loch Ness is the most gorgeous little cottage, which is continually under work by an old woodworker and traveller by the name of Stuart. The neat gadgetry and artisanship in the house is too much to go into here, but this hobbitesque doorway should give you some kind of a hint of the wonders that lie inside.

We went to a neat little place called the Clansman Centre, where Aaron was shown the proper way to wear a old, pre-Victorian tartan by a guy in authentic clothing, with an authentic Russian highlands accent.

Some of us went for a night-time dip in Loch Ness. Sadly, only one photo came out, so we don't get to see Lorelle's wild escape from the loch, but I think you can see from Murray's expression just how cold the water was.

We thought Burns' Night as good an occasion as any to give Willie a liquid gift to say thanks for being a great guide and a general all-around nutter. It was a 1986 Bowmore.

Louise certainly has a head for heights, taking time to appreciate the view from halfway up the Wrong Mountain on the Isle of Skye.

Hairy coos! At one point in the ride, I'd nodded off, and was wakened by cries of "Hairy coos on the job!" This was, I think, the nadir of our descent into peurility. These are not those coos, for I am not a promulgator of pastoral pornography.

And on the last day, it snowed! We made snow-angels and had snowball fights, and some of us took a couple of runs down the hill at Ruthven Barracks (but wearing a lot more than Willie did on Seil).

The Friday night of our return from the tour was Burns' Night, and so a traditional haggis dinner was put on for several hundred people at Castle Rock Hostel. Here, we see the haggis and the whisky being piped in as one of the staff, knife in hand, makes ready to give the address.

Glen Affric (not sure of the spelling) was probably the most beautiful place we saw on the entire tour. These photos, gorgeous as they are, hardly do it justice.