The drive to the Isle of Skye was unfortunately arduous. Dad had chosen to take the longer, so called ‘scenic’ road that would take us around Lock Lomond, which in fact was not so scenic, nor had a view of the Loch. The only saving grace of the 9 hours of driving was that we went through the Glencoe valley, which was quite spectacular. Huge mountains loomed above on either side of the road, like something out of a fantasy movie. We stopped in at the Visitors Centre there, the only building for miles, save for small cottages. It was surprisingly modern and large, what’s more was filled with tourists ooing and ah hing over their wonderful selection of souvenirs.
We stopped briefly a few more times, once to listen to a solitary bagpipe player on top of a mountain, which was one of those things “only in Scotland”, before we finally saw the bridge that would take us across to the Isle, which reminded me a little of the Bifröst. It wasn’t Asgard on the other side, but there is definitely a magical quality to the Isle of Skye.
Once across the bridge it was still another hour to the small cottage we were staying in. In the middle of nowhere, it was perched on the side of a hill, which Mum and Dad learned the hard way was actually more of a boggy marsh. While people were scarce, we had many new friends in the form of sheep, who we occasionally glimpsed outside the kitchen window, and whose bleatings were surprisingly comforting on cold, dark nights while lying awake in bed.
An unforeseen complication of the week was that there was no wifi, and the only time we could get any reception was when we would catch the briefest signal while driving along in the middle of nowhere, and dad would suddenly have to pull over. Strangely the signal in big towns was not much better. Despite this lack of connection with the outside world, I handled it with ease. The shaking and nausea were clearly a coincidence, and had nothing to with any existing or non-existing technology addiction.
In all seriousness I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was walking from one end of the cottage to another, aimlessly looking for something to do. I quickly went through the movie collection. I use the term ‘collection’ loosely, as the only thing worth watching was ‘Batman Begins’. I then started doing a jigsaw puzzle, although I left it unattended for a few moments and it was soon hijacked by Dad who had already done three puzzles during our stay. I wasn’t particularly bothered, as I’ve never been good at puzzles.
My only solace that week was that there was a TV signal, and I was able to watch some of the various Gordan Ramsay spin-offs, as well as my new obsession ‘Love Island’. While not what I would call particularly sophisticated content, a worthy guilty pleasure it was. I had been watching eight hours worth of viewing each week, and was by that point quite invested, much to my parent’s dismay. I pointed out though that it was part of our cultural exchange, and I was enriching my understanding of the British culture. I was even picking up new slang such as ‘grafting’ (I’ve been grafting on her for hours now),‘banter’ (he’s got to have good banter) and ‘mugged off’(she snogged him, and it’s got me a bit mugged off). Very important stuff.
The closest shops were about half an hour away in the main town of Portree. We were able to stop in at the visitor’s centre and plan our week, before exploring the small town and heading off on a walk along the shore. Funnily enough, Portree does have a port. Who’d have thunk it? The walk was very picturesque, much like the rest of the island, and we were starting to have scenery overload. Mountains, shores, lochs, waterfalls… We were being spoiled rotten, and our eyes were starting to glaze over.
The next trip was to Neist Point Lighthouse. It wasn’t the best weather conditions, which put a literal dampener over everything. It was cold, rainy and windy, and everything just looked a bit grey. The cliffs were quite spectacular, although we had been seeing beautiful cliffs left right and centre by that point, so it wasn’t the ‘wow’ moment it might have been if we’d seen it a week previously. Again, spoiled, I know.
All that being said, we weren’t completely above being impressed. The Fairy Pools were really quite something. Although to get to them we had to cross a rapidly flowing, icy cold stream across some slippery, wet rocks. Various methods across were being tested; some people were barefoot, other were on all fours, some people were looking for a crossing further up, while others stood there looking at it, hoping that if they stared at it long enough they would magically end up on the other side. We were at the Fairy Pools after all, and if there was magic to be had, I guess this would be the place. I opted to go across in my Docs, which on this rare occasion I fully laced up, since I have found Docs are quite grippy. I did this while Mum hung onto me for dear life, as I helped her across the stream.
Mum and I took a more leisurely approach to enjoying the landscape, which looked like a real life Bob Ross painting. Dad on the other hand decided he wanted to do the full circuit, not our measly 30 minutes and then turn back. We didn’t see him again for some time, we mused that perhaps he was off with the fairies. When he returned however, muddy and dishevelled, we felt vindicated with our decision, especially when all he did was complain about his walk. The track up ahead had been quite boggy and difficult to navigate, and on the return leg it had been impossible to cross the raging torrent safely. That was to say he crossed it unsafely, and believes 99 times out of a 100 he would have been swept out to sea.
On our trip to the Fairy Pools we had stopped in at Tallisker Distillery, and bought a taster pack of whiskies which we sampled when we got back. I didn’t care for them one bit, and while I’m no whisky expert, Dad the more experienced whisky drinker heartily agreed with me. In his blog he described the taste, which could be replicated quite easily. “Just take a vegemite jar, add a few measures of methylated spirit from a reputable brand, drop in twenty grams of cigarette butts (filter removed, non-menthol) and four inches of crumbled mosquito coil.” Seems about right to me.
Our final excursion was to the Skye Museum of Island Life, which had preserved ‘crofters’ huts. After the highland clearances many people were left with small areas of poor farmland and had to live for much of the year away working in emerging industries, and lived in these huts. While it was quite interesting to see how people would have lived, huge paragraphs of text covered all four walls of each hut, and Dad and I found it difficult to make sense of it all. Mum however was the dutiful visitor and set out to read it all, although like us eventually found she had to skip sections.
Mum and I agreed we’d had enough adventure after our trip to the museum, however the next day Dad decided to do the walk up to the Old Man of Storr, which is essentially a rather impressive-looking rock on top of a mountain. Mum and I saw it from the car and that was enough for us. While he hiked, we sat in a bar sipping cider. Clearly he hadn’t learned his lesson after the fairy pools. Alas miracle of miracles he actually enjoyed his hike, which was a miracle for us since we didn’t have to hear him complain for hours again.
This brought to a close the end of our experiences on the Isle of Skye, which was a good thing too since I was going a little stir crazy from going cold turkey on the wifi front. Next stop, our final destination in Britain after two months of travelling around.
Anna Fay On Holiday 