Years ago, I camped on the wild coastline of Scotland with two friends. It was isolated, and fifteen or so winding miles through mountains divided it from civilisation. We lit fires and walked across the sprawling white beach in the moonlight, beneath the mountains and facing the rough Atlantic Ocean.

After a short stay, we packed up the tents amidst a thick cloud of flies and headed onwards. The journey to Inverness was long, and night fell quickly. Occasionally, I pulled up at the side of the road and we made tea in the back of Sandbag on a portable gas stove. The tea supply was running low, so the bags were squeezed and shared between the three plastic mugs.

Around eleven oclock at night, we were crawling up a highland pass at a slow pace, when just at the crest of the hill, I was forced to slam on the brakes. Before the car, in the middle of the road, in the dark night, stood a proud and muscular Stag. He stared intensely, his eyes piercing and sharp, reflecting the headlamps of the car. I waited, expecting him to move, but he stood his ground. We switched of the music and I gently revved the engine in hope it would persuade him onwards.

Minutes passed – it was stalemate. No way was he letting us by.

To be faced with such a large and wild beast in the middle of nowhere was somewhat disconcerting. We watched in silence as the Stag became more agitated. Then a thundering noise filled the car and shook our bones. Forty or fifty Deer and Stags appeared from the edge of the road. All shapes and sizes bustled past in mayhem – wild eyes and milky brown bodies flowed from the trees like something from Jurassic Park. It seemed to take an eternity. Finally, the thundering of hooves stopped and silence returned. The engine idled and the Stag looked deep into my eyes. He lowered his neck to the ground and then lifted his head high into the sky.

They had crossed safely, and his work was done. He disappeared into the dark hills.

A tingle ran down my spine.