Tiree -> Inverness

 The sea slips beneath me as I fly southeast towards the island of Jura, home of one of my favourite whiskies. On the horizon to my left, the Isle of Mull hangs off my wingtip.

I've picked a relatively low cruise; 2,500 feet. That's lower than a lot of the terrain I'll be flying past, but it's a clear day so there's no risk of accidentally ploughing into the side of a mountain. The plan: Fly round the south of the Isle of Mull towards Oban, strike straight over the high ground towards the Bridge of Orchy, which is at the high end of the glen that sweeps down towards Loch Lomond, then head north and follow the A82 over one of my favourite places in the world; the high ground that leads to the top of Glencoe, site of an infamous massacre in 1692 that has left bad blood that still exists after centuries (my wife's grandmother would never eat Campbells soup!).

And that's exactly what I do. It looks *exactly* like I remember it from times I've driven it, and wished I could lift the nose of the car and swoop around the huge amphitheatre surrounded by bare peaks. The Scottish landscape is amazingly, beautifully devoid of complication in places. No forests, fields, nothing. The people cleared the forests that covered the whole country, and a thousand years later the gentry cleared the people that had made it their home - more infamy, the Highland Clearances that saw so many subsidence farmers forced off land they'd called their home for generations, to the cities or across the sea to the new world. They have left behind a barren landscape of grass, low heather, and haggis runs.

I follow the road just a few hundred feet up. At the top of Glen Coe I drop the nose and throttle back, descending with the road towards the ocean end and Lock Leven. In the glen, I meet my first incongruous piece of terrain - a lake, wrongly placed so that it is sitting on the steep slope of a mountain. That... is not real. It's not really there. Nobody could convince water, the laziest of all the geographical forces, to climb a mountain like that.

Apart from that ludicrous faux pas, the glen is as I remember. Craggy rocks, a river plunging down beneath the level of the road, sheep grazing on the hillsides. Just... ignore the 45-degree lake...

And look ahead, as Ben Nevis wheels into view. It's the highest mountain in Britain, at 4,400 feet, and flying past mountains is just cool. Simple as. I'd like to climb it one day, and it should probably happen before I get old. If we survive Covid, I'll head up it. I pass over Fort William and swing round the north of the peak to start working my way up the Great Glen.

Navigating to Inverness is very easy from here, even though it's on the other coast. You just follow the Glen, it's an old tectonic fault rift that makes a straight line between Fort William and Inverness. I settle down at 1,000 feet, with the hills either side of the Glen rising above me.

The west end of Loch Ness passes beneath, and I try to spot a hotel I stayed in 20 years ago on a family holiday with my gran in Fort Augustus. And the next 15 minutes looking for the Loch Ness monster to no avail.

Inverness hoves into view, and I descend towards the airport.

The landing is... survivable. Got to give myself space to improve after all.