This is the end of the public highway on Jura, the smaller of the two islands we've just visited. But our car problems began over on Islay, when an astounding downpour soaked the electrics and turned it into the Ford Escort version of Herbie.
Walking back to the car, I noticed that the windscreen wipers started working on their own and that the heated windscreen would turn on at random.
But that was as nothing compared to the horn sounding on its own. Incessantly. In a quiet village. Outside the house of a shift worker.
Driving out of a village like that sure turns heads. Especially if they think you're doing it on purpose. Fortunately we managed to get a garage to make it stop.
Then the indicators stopped working, so we went to an island that has only one road - Jura. And this pic is at the end of that road.
We decided not to let that stop us, so we left the car, grabbed sleeping bags and tent and decided to walk the six and a half miles to the northern tip of the island, past Orwell's old house.
If I tell you that it started to rain again, you may have a clue as to where this story's heading...