Not a physical manifestation of my inner turmoil but the doorbell on the local post office.  This is a place where my only friends (apart from the crew) were two seals, a sheep and a hen that looked strangely like Peter Crouch. All very lovely and idyllic for about two days until I realised there were only three meals to eat at the hotel, the milk went solid over night and at 9pm the hotel manager played the recorder in the empty bar. It was like being in The Wicker Man (surely only a matter of time before seal started playing the recorder and Peter Crouch turned up to serve me dinner) Half way through I started dreaming about driving two hours south to Inverness just so I could go and stand in a queue.