Then down into the beautiful, Disney-esque hamlet of Tongue before you round Cape Wraith, which signals the point at which Scandinavian sailors should turn right for home. Past Hanna Island, where the Puffins plunge off the cliffs to raft in the sea for a week before heading into the ocean’s cresting winter rollers to give birth, and into the shelter of Badcall Bay, 250 miles after we set off.
Thanks to the Rolls' famous waftability, when we arrived at Badcall Bay, where the evening sun lit up the Nordic islands scattered round the inlet, we languidly stepped out from the white and black leather interior and felt as if we had travelled a tenth of the distance, so rested were our limbs.
The next morning, after a night at the welcoming Eddrachillis Hotel, at the owner’s urging we took the single-lane, twisting B869 past Drumbeg, which has Scotland’s finest village store overlooking a little tarn and serval mooching Highland Cattle. We stocked up on walnut and stilton oatcakes from the owner (from Reading, obviously) and went on, diverting again for four miles to the weather-blasted lighthouse at Stoer. Just beyond, Achmelvich bay dazzled even in the overcast mizzle, its white sands and pale blue sea entertaining a solitary seal.
Then down, and inland slightly, through rock-strewn hills and valleys, every turn eliciting a gasp of awe at the wilderness. Finally, to Loch Ewe, shelter for the Atlantic convoys and captured U-boats (the locals at one point in World War Two could walk across the loch without getting their feet wet, so chokka were the waters with boats, ships and subs).
And finally, to Loch Torridon, which hosts many a car launch, before turning back to Inverness and, reluctantly, to a plane bound for overcrowded, over-stressed, overworked London.
The locals were talking about rich city boys having their supercars low-loaded up to the Highlands now for a weekend of charging round the coastal roads before blatting back to London. I hope not. I hope God’s country stays as perfect as it currently is: the last refuge for motoring in its purist sense – as a way to experience utter liberty, and to enhance the experience of one of the UK’s last true wildernesses.
Images courtesy of http://www.northcoast500.com/