I covered the three kilometres to the railway bridge in three quarters of an hour, and at 4.45 pm I sat down under the bridge for a glug and an energy boost - courtesy of my remaining slab of Kendal Mint Cake. I was certainly going to have daylight enough to tackle that Munro, and I felt up for it. I looked out from under the bridge and tried to identify which mountain it was. The identification wasn't difficult - the landforms were pretty obvious - but just to make sure I decided to take a bearing to the summit I had identified. Having done so, I transferred that bearing to my map ... and it was NOTHING LIKE the bearing to Beinn na Lap.
Now this, I thought, was strange. I looked back at my mountain, and studied the land forms. Then I looked back at my map, and studied it closely, trying to figure out what it could possibly be if it wasn't Beinn na Lap. And then I looked up, at the great big lump of cast iron which the North British Railway Company had deposited right slap bang overhead, and wondered whether it might just be possible that my compass needle, fickle as she was, had transferred her affections from her distant lover at the North Pole, and was now more attracted to the bridge deck overhead.
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