what exactly happens, after death?

Last evening, as we sat by our roaring driftwood fire, and chatted aimlessly over a glass of madeira and a pipe or two, Geoffrey and I realised that we had tired of our fave topic, "Is Death Avoidable?", and have taken the logical step of turning to the next rung up so to speak, viz., "Is There Life After Death?", or, "What Exactly Happens, After Death?".
"Does this mean that we've accepted Death as inevitable?" I mused.
"No Tuppy, of course we haven't," replied Geoffrey, refilling his pipe.
"All the same that doesn't mean that we're going to stop eating pies, surely?" I asked, worriedly.
"No. Pies, salty/fatty snax and processed meats will remain a major part of our diets. Have no fear on that front, Tuppy."
"What on earth do you mean then? According to the ghastly Wilson, our diet is killing us. Salt, the silent killer. Kidneys like conkers. Fatty atheromas. Plaques. You name it, we've got it."
"Yes, but who is Wilson, really? what does he really know? all this so-called research that he bangs on about viz a viz our diets could be just a load of old pants, quite frankly. And look at the state of him! So pale and scrawny. And that's him living on seaweed."
"Or so he says, Geoffrey. I've often suspected he might supplement his so-called diet with something else...but more of that later. I agree he does look as if he could do with a good feed."
"Yes and he's SO tense all the time! ranting on about people's mortality and getting worked up."
"Yes. I'm surprised that HE doesn't have a heart attack. He wants to chill out a bit. Anyway enough about Wilson. Get back to the point, please, Geoffrey. You were saying that we haven't given up on the idea that death could be avoidable?"
"Of course we haven't. But we might as well digress for a bit to consider what might happen should death occur - afterwards."
"Oh." I must say my heart sank as I contemplated this ghastliness. All sorts of depressing scenarios flooded my brain. Life without Geoffrey! And never mind that - would there be madeira, and crisps?
"No, Geoffrey, this won't do at all. This is depressing the hell out of me. We'll have to return to sunnier climes, viz., is Death Avoidable. And pass me that plateful of korn bif and salad cream sandwiches while you're at it."

I swap a knee rug for my immortal soul

Last evening, Geoffrey and I were enjoying our usual glass of madeira in front of a roaring driftwood fire. We sat in companionable silence for an hour or so, puffing away on pipefuls of Black Bogey and toasting our feet. Then...
"What's that awful smell?" said Geoffrey.
"Burning rubber, " I replied. The sole of my slipper had started to melt. Not for the first time.
Once we'd removed the slipper and set it at the front door to re-solidify, we sat down again and began to discuss our fave topic, viz. "Is Death Avoidable?" Regular readers will know that this involves a reflection on the point or otherwise of reducing dietary fat intake and increasing regular exercise. Usually we decide that there's no point in doing either - why make life more unpleasant that it needs to be?
As we did so, a shadow passed back and forth outside our window - the Grim Reaper himself, complete with scythe - the miserable old so and so.
"Get lost!" we shouted. "You're much too early. The winter hasn't even set in."
"Why isn't he down at the bay?" muttered Geoffrey. "After all, there's plenty work for him there, what with the new trip wire and all."
"Yes," a ghastly voice intoned (the Reaper), "but the tourist season's nearly over. I'm all out of cyclists and kayakers. I'm having to spread my net a bit wider. Can I come in? It's a bit nippy out here."
"No! go and spread your net somewhere else, why don't you?" I snapped. "What about Tuppence's wrecking light? aren't there any doomed seafarers you can pick on?"
"Good idea. Forgot about that. But I'm still awfully chilly."
"Tuppy - give him your tartan knee rug. And what about your zip up slippers? the sole's gone on one anyway."
With a sigh, I opened the door a crack and handed the Reaper said knee rug and slippers.
And off he went. For now...
"I want the rug back mind," I called. The Reaper replied with a nonchalant wave as he shuffled off down the hillside.
"Tuppy!" hissed Geoffrey. "You fool! You've given him a reason to return. Let him keep the thing. It's a small exchange for your immortal soul, after all."
"Ooops! I didn't think of that!"

embattled

My goodness, we're really getting them "Hereabouts". Fanatics, extreme sports enthusiasts, or "strangers" as we like to refer to them. They're either whizzing down the hillside on bikes, or kayaking across the bay clad in startlingly coloured lycra - which I have to say, does nobody any favours.
As readers will know, we prefer to keep ourselves to ourselves "Hereabouts", and don't particularly welcome visitors with their demands for mod cons and muesli-style breakfast cereals.
We had an emergency top level meeting at Tupfinder Towers, in which we discussed a strategy, viz., setting up a lengthy trip wire to run along the hillside, parallel with the cliffs, and similar in style and effect to the one which so effectively despatched the "stranger in our midst" just a few days ago. If we can manage to connect it up to the old generator over at the Old Rectory, and electrify it, better still. (by the way - renovations at the Old Rectory are continuing apace and it should be ready for habitation very soon. Apsley and Cherry have been forced to move out of Tupfinder Towers due to Mrs T-G having "one of her turns" and brandishing a carving knife at them over the dinner table, while screaming "are you NEVER going to leave?", and are living in a caravan next to the Old Rectory)
Not that we mean any harm to anyone, of course. Once they've tumbled off their bikes it's hardly our fault if they end up in the bay, a thousand feet below. And hardly our fault if they can't swim fast enough to avoid the snapping jaws of Baby Orca. Mind you, he's quite likely to be full up after bingeing on kayakers.
So, we feel satisfied with our plan to keep Ourselves to Ourselves and fight off the encroachment of the modern world. So far, so good.

Back at the Outcrop, after we'd rescued all the survivors and helped them on their way, Geoffrey and the T-G gave me a serious talking to, in the course of which I shamefacedly blurted out the details of my gruesome deal with baby orca.
"Foolish animal," said the T-G, who was still waxing stern. "Why worry about a few death threats from a killer whale? he can only harm you if you go into the water."
"Or near it," ventured Geoffrey.
"Indeed," agreed the T-G. "So no more talk about throwing people over the top willy nilly. Tell baby orca to stop throwing his weight about and crack open that barrel of illicit madeira."
Why didn't I think of that? of course I'm safe on dry land! perfectly safe...unless...well, I must admit I'm a little concerned that once he realises I've welshed he will enlist the help of A.N. Other, i.e. a hired assassin, to do me in. Tuppence and the rats, perchance?
They will soon tire of wrecking - too much effort - and I'm sure no activity is too nefarious for Tuppence and his gang - in fact, the more nefarious the better.
The T-G has agreed to lend me a musket, just in case...

ship ahoy

More gloom. Although...I must say, for my part it's more gloom mixed with relief. I feel terrible for saying that, but the way things stand with baby orca, well, I have to put myself first, after all. What choice do I have?
Readers will remember (if not, please delve back through previous posts) that baby orca pursued me for ages in a relentless attempt to seek revenge for his mother's death. He's still after me - hence the deal that we struck recently, in which I agreed to provide him with "fresh meat" on demand. (How did I manage to strike a deal with a killer whale? well, I used the heliograph, over by the old coastguard hut, and signalled to him in morse code from the cliff top. He replied in the following manner - one blast from his blowhole for "yes", and two for "no".)
Today's emotional "melange" comprises a) "gloom" because naturally like (almost) everyone else I do have feelings, can empathise, sense another's pain blah blah blah yawn oops! I mean etc. and so forth, and so when Tuppence's wrecking light succeeded in grounding a ship on the rocks close to shore early this morning, I was quite distraught, horrified, appalled and so on, and hurried down to the shore to see what could be done; and b) "relief", which, despite my efforts to dismiss it from my mind, forced itself into the emotional sunlight as I realised with (I'm ashamed to say) some joy that here before my eyes was the perfect breakfast for Baby Orca.
Geoffrey observed me jumping up and down with excitement, and knew immediately that something was up.
"What have you been up to, Tuppy? there's something you're not telling me. Out with it!"
"Let's get back to the outcrop first Geoffrey, and I'll tell you all about it over a glass of madeira. In fact, I think I see a barrel floating in the water over there. Hand me that stick. I'll just..."
"No you won't! you'll help the rest of us rescue the survivors. Have you no decency?" It was the Tupfinder, waxing "stern".
I gulped. Here I was, thinking of looting barrels of illicit madeira, when there were arms and legs waving helplessly in the bay. How could I be so callous?

nasty accident in the bay

Goodness, what a weekend we've had. Geoffrey and I battled our way along to the Puff Inn - and through a Force 9 gale might I add. No joke when you've got a nine hundred foot drop on your lee side and a list to port. (or something like that anyway).
Of course we were supposed to be having a meeting to discuss the "stranger in our midst", but we all overindulged in the Purple Peril and after a while it didn't seem to matter quite as much that some narcissistic nutter had taken it upon himself to treat us like some sort of experiment for nothing short of his own unhealthy edification.
"Let him film us!" I remember shouting, standing on a table and brandishing a brimming pewter mugful of Stormy's finest. "What do we care? We've nothing to hide!"
Everyone applauded loudly and showed their approval by blowing up empty crisp bags and bursting them.
Naturally Stormy had his usual Friday lock-in and everything's pretty much a blank after that.
Next day, we were wending our way back along the cliffs after a "heart starter", and looking forward to a slap up breakfast, when we spotted what looked like a bundle of brightly coloured lycra rags, drifting in the bay below.
"Oh dear. How dreadfully, dreadfully sad," we said insincerely. "Looks like the "stranger" came a cropper in the gale last night. Dearie, dearie me."
Was he blown off the cliffs in the gale? Possibly - after all, it was a bad one. OR, was he "assisted" on his watery way, by "someone" setting an electrified trip wire in front of his tent? we'll never know for sure, and I couldn't possibly comment.
HOWEVER- sighted swimming round and round the bay in a very smug manner and looking rather full up, was baby orca. Coincidence? hardly. Let's just say, strictly between ourselves, that after a lengthy feud (see previous posts as to why I had to blast my way out of his mother's belly - twice - thus leading to aforesaid lengthy feud) baby orca and I have reached an "arrangement" viz. I keep him "fed", and he leaves me alone.
No, it isn't nice, I know. But needs must. Obviously Geoffrey and the T-G know nothing of this. They'd never permit such appalling behaviour. I feel dreadful about keeping secrets from dear old Geoffrey, but I want the nightmares to stop - it was awful closing my eyes at night and seeing him there, those enormous teeth, the huge dorsal fin, the snapping jaws, the beady little eye seeking, always seeking his prey - ME!!! I know it's wrong of me to even contemplate throwing living beings over the top in order to save myself, but honestly I can't think what on earth else to do. Oh well.
Besides, I probably won't have to contribute to his diet for the foreseeable, because something tells me he won't be going short of food for quite some while. Tuppence has been spotted setting up a wrecking light along the cliffs. He's up to his old tricks again, back in the tunnels, with the rats. No good can come of this, at all....

red alert - outdoor fanatic spotted

Newsflash - everything on hold - there's a stranger in our midst, viz. some outdoor fanatic wearing camouflage gear and living in a tent. He's carrying some sort of portable camera, and films himself, constantly, and even attempts to film US!! he - apparently - thinks he's living "rough" in "the wilderness", and plans to broadcast his "experiences" on telly! which we won't even be able to watch, since Apsley and Cherry Fulmar's place burned down (see recent posts) along with their 62" LCD TV.
Obviously this won't do at all. Something will have to be done. Personally, I'd chuck him "over the top" immediately, no question, (see Gazetteer and previous posts for details of this practice), but the T-G, Geoffrey, Razor Bill, Stormy et al prefer to have a top level meeting to decide on the proper, morally-correct-style course of action. So, tomorrow night a formal meeting of Everyone Hereabouts wil be convened at the Puff Inn, 8.30 sharp. Purple Perils and salty/hi fat snax to be provided by Stormy for a small remuneration.
Weather forecast is for gales and torrential rain - I only hope we make it...

attack of the vapours

Good heavens - what a morning it's been and it's only eleven o'clock. I was awakened at some ungodly hour by Razor Bill hammering on the door with the post and whistling horribly through his teeth - the few he has left, anyway. Normally this doesn't occur until mid-afternoon, by which time I'm more compos mentis. Anyway I staggered to my feet in my nightcap, tartan dressing gown and zip up slippers, gripping my favourite Meerschaum pipe between my teeth - the few I have left, anyway - and clutching a glass containing some dregs of last night's final bottle of madeira, and flung open the door.
"What ho, Tuppy!" he bellowed.
"What ho? what on earth do you mean by that? And why are you shouting?"
"He's still got his earplugs in, Tuppy. Look," said Geoffrey, from the kitchen, where he had his pinny on, preparing our usual breakfast of square sausage, fried egg, fried bread, fried tomato, bacon (grilled), fried mushroooooooms, followed by buttered toast and marmalade and washed down by gallons of tea.
I did indeed look, and sure enough I detected two pink wax thingies protruding from either ear. After extracting them and flinging them into the fire (they were revolting) we all sat down to enjoy our meal.
"Have you plugged in the defibrillator, Tuppy?" asked Geoffrey, anxiously, as he helped himself to another slice of fried bread.
"Of course. Now to more important subjects. Any news of Tupfinder Towers, and the Fulmars?"
"They're still there," said Bill, "But only because they refuse to leave. It's..."
"May I come in?" a voice called weakly from the door. It was the T-G himself, worn to an almost unrecognisable frazzle by his houseguests (the Fulmars - see previous posts).
"Oh - by the way - before I forget - you have a letter," Bill added, handing it to me ( see previous post for "letter" i.e. comment from reader!).
I was so shocked by this unusual event that I had an attack of the vapours and fainted dead away. Swiftly revived, of course, by a whiff of sal volatile and a few thousand volts from the defibrillator...

oh dear oh dear

Oh dear oh dear. I'm afraid we've had a bit of a week. On Monday last, Ranald and Sandy took a break from their labours trying to rebuild the Old Rectory, and went for a stretch of the wings. They headed north west, where Baby Orca (BO) was spotted patrolling the outer reaches of The Minch. He seemed to be building himself up into a frenzy, swimming round in tighter and tighter circles, while moving south east, i.e. towards US.
Bad enough - but directly in his path, they spotted Tuppence, sculling away for dear life.
Fortunately, the two of them managed to heave the coracle into the air, Tuppence safely on board but screaming the most foul abuse imaginable.
He likes to think he can handle any situation, hence his wrath. Hurt pride, plain and simple. But Ranald and Sandy were having none of it.
"Out you go, ungrateful brat!" they said, and tipped the coracle over. Tuppence hurtled to the ground - well, sea - where he had to swim like billy be jiggered while the orca powered his way towards him with a very determined look on his face. He made it to land, give him his due, but we're not sure where he is at the moment. Possibly hiding out in one of the tunnels, plotting his next exploit...
Meanwhile, the Fulmars are getting short shrift at Tupfinder Towers. Mrs T-G says they are eating her out of house and home, and using up all the hot water. The Tupfinder general is spending all his spare time here at the Outcrop, puffing away on his pipe in a very agitated manner and drinking all our madeira, saying he's desperate for some peace and quiet...
The sooner Ranald and Sandy get the Old Rectory up and running, the better.

the old rectory burns to the ground, and I get the blame

Geoffrey and I are having a quiet day today, huddled by the fireside with our kneerugs and steaming mugs of hot madeira as the rain pours down outside. Mind you, even if the rain wasn't pouring down, we'd both be pretty incapable of movement.
"Great to be back home again, Geoffrey."
"Indeed, Tuppy. Just wish we hadn't overindulged at the Fulmars' on Friday. Have you got any more Bisodal by the way?"
We were all invited to BBQ at the Fulmars' on Friday night, in honour of Ranald and Sandy's forthcoming re-modelling of the Old Rectory. Cherry had made up some of her famous korn bif and pineapple kebabs, and I'm sorry to say it and risk seeming ungrateful, but Apsley undercooked them. Geoffrey spotted that the gas jets on the barbeque were burning with a sinister yellow, not blue, flame, and pointed this out to Apsley, emphasizing the risk to us all of carbon monoxide poisoning, not to mention some sort of ghastly improperly-heated-through-food-style poisoning, as well.
"Rubbish! relax and have another drink, Geoff!" said Apsley in his fulsome way, slapping Geoffrey on the shoulder and pouring him another brimming glass of purple peril (meths based drink - see previous posts for recipe). Geoffrey hates being slapped on the shoulder, and he hates being called "Geoff" as well, but he was much too polite to say so. I therefore felt obliged to step in and say something.
Unfortunately, as I stepped forwards, my foot caught in the trailing string of Apsley's special plastic BBQ apron (ghastly - female Fulmar in black underwear on front), and I tripped, banging in to Geoffrey, and knocking his glassful of Purple Peril all over the BBQ, which consequently was set ablaze in no uncertain manner.
Some fool attempted to stem the flames by pouring more meths over, and you can imagine the result.
The Old Rectory was burnt to the ground, jacuzzi, 62" telly, Cherry's Burt Bacharach albums, decking, the lot. We all had to run for our lives!!!
We offered the Fulmars the sanctuary of our settee here at the Outcrop, which they declined rather sniffily, partly because they blame ME for the fire!! and partly because the Outcrop falls a tad short of their usual requirements viz a viz accommodation i.e. we have no "mod cons".
So they are now ensconced in the East Wing of Tupfinder Towers, which has ensuite facilities and gives a lovely view of the sea, so they imagine. (I think the ensuite facilities likely consist of a hole in the floor of the bedroom, with a "drop" on to the seaweed covered rocks below (East Wing is on the fourth floor) - not sure how Cherry will cope with that, but I'm sure we'll hear all about it - I'll bet there is no soft bog roll, either)
No sign of Tuppence yet - Geoffrey flew a mile or two out for a recce but saw nothing.
We can only hope that the Orca is still away visiting his family in the Southern Ocean...

heading for home

What luck! turns out Ranald and Sandy had stopped off at Flannan Isle for a breather on their way to "Hereabouts..." ( see gazetteer for info.) , where they've been invited to give Apsley and Cherry's abode, The Old Rectory, a makeover.
"But WHY? Only last year they got it stonecladded and decked and goodness knows what all else." we asked.
"That's precisely why," replied Ranald. "They want all that stripped down now. They're sick of it. They want a different look for the autumn. More rustic, I think, wasn't it Sandy? Log fires and sheaves of dried this and that? Gourds and twig-type stuff, in earthenware pots? Textured fabrics, in natural tones?"
Sandy shrugged. "No earthly idea and frankly I could not care one jot. They're SO tacky, and they won't listen to advice. It's their way, or no way. Frankly I'd rather it was no way, as I've NO interest in working for them, but what with the recession we need the money. Anyway - can we offer the two of you a lift back to the Outcrop?"
"Yes!!" we chorused, clambering on to their enormous backs.
"Hang on!" they shouted, as they unfurled their beautiful white wings, took off into the westering wind and soared homewards.
As we soared skywards, we glimpsed some wreckage. It looked very much like a pile of rusting tin cans - rusting korn bif tins, to be precise. In fact, we deduced that it was Tuppence's latest TTD (time travelling device - see previous posts), which must have crash-landed on Flannan Isle, hence his mysterious presence on the island. As we flew over the Minch, we glimpsed a tiny white woolly figure clad in yellow oilskins, sculling valiantly away, heading for...well, hard to tell really. But I'm sure it was Tuppence.

welcome visitors

We slithered over the rocks towards the cave where we'd stashed the coracle, closely followed by Tuppence, still firing off the odd shot.
"You're on a hiding to nothing, uncle Tuppy," he shrieked above the gale. "Look!"
We turned and glanced quickly over our shoulders, to see Tuppence brandishing something small in his hand.
"Oh no. It's the bung." Geoffrey's shoulders dropped in despair.
"What?"
"The bung. From the coracle. Without it, it'll sink like a stone."
With that, Tuppence scurried past us, bung in hand, and proceeded to retrieve the coracle.
"Bye, uncle Tuppy!" he screamed as he sculled out into thirty foot waves. "Happy landings!"
"He's gone completely off his rocker," I said. "But we still don't know how he got here in the first place. He must have had a craft of some sort. We'd better have a look round once the gale dies down."
"Yes," said Geoffrey. "Perhaps there's something we can salvage."
"Geoffrey, " I said, "I need to say something at this juncture. Please don't worry about me. You have wings. You can fly away whenever you like. Please don't stay here and starve with me. I'll be all right on my own. Please don't worry about me, being left here to die alone on the rocks, with no-one to comfort me. Don't worry in the least. Just you go, and save yourself. I'll be fine. Honestly."
"Nonsense, Tuppy!" cried Goeffrey, with tears in his eyes. "If I DO fly away..."
"Oh!" a small cry escaped my lips.
"If I DO fly away, " he continued, with a smile, "It will only be to fetch help. Don't worry, Tuppy. I'd never leave you to die."
Suddenly the gale died down, and we felt another breeze - as enormous wings flapped around our heads...
"Ranald and Sandy! how lovely of you to stop by!" cried Geoffrey. It was the Wand'ring Albatrosse's. What luck!

trapped in the lighthouse with an armed maniac

We followed Tuppence's advice and struggled out into the howling elements to rescue the coracle. Luckily for Tuppence, he was sporting full gale-style protection kit, viz. an oilskin coat which reached to his ankles, seaboots, and a matching oilskin hat. Geoffrey and I were less fortunate. Of course, my wool does contain lanolin, and Geoffrey's feathers have waterproofing, nevertheless we soon found ourselves shivering and soaked through as we battled across the slippery seaweed covered rocks to the shingle beach where we'd stashed the coracle.
Eventually we managed to drag it into a cave high above the tide line, where it should be safe enough.
After, we restored ourselves with some emergency madeira and cake rations beside a crackling driftwood fire, inside the lighthouse.
"But what on earth are you DOING here, uncle Tuppy?" queried Tuppence, fixing me with his most piercing and disapproving gaze.
"I might ask you the same question, nephew," I replied, refusing to be intimidated by his stare.
"Can't say," he said curtly. "Top secret. Special ops."
"For goodness sake! don't be so melodramatic!" I snapped, then instantly regretted my loss of self control as Tuppence threw off his oilskin to reveal a brace of pistols stuck into his belt.
"Don't worry, uncle Tuppy. I won't use them. Unless I HAVE to."
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances. Tuppence was even more power mad than ever. We would need to take steps. Either that, or leave the island asap.
As soon as Tuppence nodded off by the fire, Geoffrey and I had a whispered confab.
"We can't let him go around behaving like this, Tuppy! Carrying pistols, and throwing his weight about! He's completely deluded! he's going to end up in the hulks!"
"Hold on a minute, Geoffrey. We don't know who's pulling his strings, do we? For all we know, he really could be on special ops.."
"Rubbish! he's bonkers! let's get those pistols off him while he's still asleep."
Suddenly, a hail of shot blasted into the lighthouse wall, and the initial T appeared in bulletholes above the fireplace.
"You fools!" laughed Tuppence, twirling the smoking pistols then sticking them back into his belt.
Geoffrey and I backed towards the door as swiftly as possible under the circumstances. Trapped on Flannan Isle, with a maniac armed to the teeth? there was only one thing to do...
RUN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

a surprise meeting on Flannan Isle

Well we're still on the Flannan Isles and a wild and windy spot it is. We're quite sheltered in the old lighthouse, but it's terribly creepy (to put it mildly). The door was swinging open on its rusty old hinges when we arrived, and inside all was dank and dark. Geoffrey struck a match and revealed the cobwebby remains of the lighthouse keepers' final meal - a bit of stale bread and the dregs of some ale. Which I polished off - no point wasting it - and I have to say it was a damn sight tastier than Scott's last biscuit (see previous posts - some while ago, I got into a lot of trouble after scoffing that).

We got the fire lit and were toasting ourselves by its flickering light when we heard ghostly footsteps in the stairwell which spirals upwards to the light itself. At first we blamed it on the wind, which was beginning to howl abominably, and the pattering of rain on the tiny leaded window, but the volume intensified, the footsteps thundered downwards towards us, and eventually we huddled together behind the door in terror for our lives...

Suddenly the door burst open, and a voice piped, "Better move the coracle further up the beach uncle Tuppy!"

It was Tuppence, my incorrigible nephew - but what on earth was he doing, on Flannan Isle?

an unexpected holiday

Spockfingers threw himself on to the settee and promptly fell sound asleep. The snoring was so unbelievably loud that the walls and roof of the outcrop began to shake alarmingly. We decided we'd have to wake him up - no easy task - and instantly regretted it, because he then burst into song. Awful renditions of various "numbers" he remembered from T in the Park. We tried to find out how long he intended to stay with us, but he refused to say.
Eventually, we decided that if HE wasn't moving, WE would have to. So, we got out the old coracle, packed a few belongings and supplies into a couple of teachests and set off into the blue. We sculled and sculled with a following wind, past the time-space continuum anomaly, and the Infra Inn, and the Hulks, (now rusting and empty, thankfully - see last years posts if you want to know how we rescued all the poor sheep who were awaiting slaughter) until we cleared the headland of "Over There".
Eventually, we reached the archipelago of St Kilda, but the seas were against us and we had to scull away again through mountainous waves. After sailing through the night, we ended up at the old lighthouse on the Flannan Isles.
We're still there...