I sit in the pub in Largs, supping on a Guinness after having clambered over a hill, through a beautiful valley cut by the most innocuous-looking burn (the Gogo Burn, if you're interested), following it up into the mist and finally arriving at a gorgeous set of waterfalls, hidden away behind the grass and the mud and the rocks and the sheep. Lots of sheep.

There's some local debate as to whether these are the Greta Falls or the Greeto Falls. The Ordnance Survey insists on Greeto, but I prefer a name that doesn't sound like George Lucas came up with it.

So to the Barretts, they're forever the Greta Falls.

Bye Dad. I'll visit again soon.