Our pace quickened from Mam Barrisdale, downhill now all the way to glittering Inverie Bay. A resident, tinkering with a boat in his driveway, regarded us with kindly concern as we plodded past on our approach to the village. We carried about us the essence of the bog, smeared in mud and smelling for all the world like a badger had died in one of our bags. But soon we rounded a corner and Inverie"s tiny main drag revealed itself: a succession of little white houses, with a pub sign heralding the Old Forge at their centre. We had made it.