Yes it is. Taken at 6am. The one horse, was already long gone in this town. Dalwhinnie is a long string of semi abandoned plots, bulldozed lots, and derilict truck stops where only the ghosts of truckers of old are still eating their Big Breakfasts.
The A9 killed Dalwhinnie in way it never quite managed with other, still prospering towns like Dunkeld, Pitlochry, and the tarty little jewel in its crown: Aviemore.
The sun was going down, it was late on a Friday night after a long week, and the empty car park looked good to me.
This is the next morning before getting the hell out of town.
No mess no trace - and I was gone.
Gone though, only after a night from hell. No sleep at all. Entombed in a new 'tent'; optomistically described as a 'bivy tent'. Small light, but actually an instrument of torture. Designed for the military, which says it all. Like a sleeping bag made from clingfilm - and colder than a cold thing. Six years of biking and I'm still searching for my MO. The bivy tent sure as hell isn't it. Sorry, no photo.
