All the equipment. None of it useful.

In Aviemore everyone appeared to be preparing for something. Boots, poles, jackets with purposeful little fastenings. I checked my own equipment: four wheels, a bottle and a receipt no longer willing to identify itself. I looked ready for a very different emergency.

I stopped outside an outdoor shop. The clothing suggested that weather was an opponent which could be defeated by purchasing enough layers. I have spent my life outdoors in a mesh vest. It had never occurred to me to appeal.

The proposed excursion was Cairngorm Mountain, beyond the town. There was a railway which could do the climbing. This was encouraging. I had learned in Stirling that outsourcing height might be sensible.

I examined the plan more closely. Transport to the mountain first; a ticket next. The railway welcomes wheelchair users and has lift access, but this did not settle the separate question of an unaccompanied supermarket trolley seeking a recreational summit. I could not reasonably expect passenger assistance to supply the passenger.

A group passed, discussing conditions. I had conditions too. FLW veered left, BRW rattled and my receipt was disintegrating. None appeared relevant to their expedition. I let them go without contributing.

Instead I took a shorter excursion around town, looking at people who were looking forward to leaving it. A backpack rested beside its owner. It contained things selected for a purpose. My bottle had been put in me by a stranger. I felt briefly underqualified even as luggage.

Then the wind lifted a corner of the receipt, and I tucked it back. There was nothing useful left to read, but I remembered where it had got wet. Perhaps that counted as equipment for a different sort of journey.

I found shelter and watched the jackets return. Some looked tired. I had achieved that without booking anything. Aviemore offered adventure on a magnificent scale. I had managed a small one, badly dressed.