My aged companion Crisp read every brochure she could find. Not far from where we were staying was the Field of the Wee Wee Folk.
Legend had it that these small folk inhabited the field and defended their right to it. Dressed in bright red kilts with stunning red and green sporran under which they hid objects of unfathomable delight.
Crisp armed with her camera set off towards the field.
It looked like any other field, grassy, but did have a narrow walking track.
A pinprick to my ankle alerted me to a presence I thought was mythical. Looking down, there was a small bearded man brandishing a sword and shouting at me.
‘Neh noc hec ya scurvy basted’ or words to that effect.
Crisp started taking photos to which the small man lifted his sporran and Crisp fainted.
I guess she wasn’t ready for an object of unfathomable delight.