His kilted legs aching and ginger-browed eyes stinging with sweat, Angus carefully laid the deep-fat fryer and box of Tunnock’s Teacakes on the summit cairn.

The skirl of bagpipes playing Scotland the Brave drifted up from the Highland games now getting underway in the glen, much later than the advertised time.

As the plucky village shinty team snatched defeat from the jaws of victory, their wily, accordion-playing supporters helped themselves to a cargo of rare single malt, washed up on the remote beach earmarked for oil industry development.

A man was stabbed in Glasgow. The Bed & Breakfast was full.

It began to rain.

Somewhere along the North Coast 500, a Ferrari hit a flock of sheep, left the road and overturned, ejecting its tweed-clad occupant (London-based) and spreading a cargo of whisky flavoured marmalade, shortbread and golf clubs across the heather.

A stag bellowed at an eagle eating a haggis on a crag overlooking an abandoned croft.

Angus cracked open a celebratory can of Irn Bru, raising it in salute to the monster surfacing on the misty loch, far below.

He’d done it. Ben Cliché was finally conquered.

D.C. Flanagan

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