At the end of the week, and with so little time left to make new work, we were amazed to wake up to rays of sunshine. Knowing it would be short-lived we bolted up the steep track-ways to the base of the Sgurr, improvising the shots as we went. It had not been my orriginal intention to do so- but the Sgurr quickly became a benevolent force and I held the horns up and they naturally came to rest as if the mountain crest wore them as its own. We climbed higher and higher and I stood at the base of pitch stone with my eyes closed and the horns raised like some ancient priest (or a Christopher Lee fan I suppose!) and as I did so the weather turned on us. Ann Sgurr had perhaps been taunted enough. We waited out the storm in a nook for while before attempting to climb up to the summit. But the wind had picked up and as we stood no more that a few hundred yards from our goal, the gusts threatened to sweep us to our deaths so violently, that we conceded defeat to the sleeping deity and returned to the cottage.