SKYE - The Misty Isle

Tuesday 6th July 1993 - Day 41

I packed up all my nice clean clothes, managing to fit almost everything in my bags, with my sandwiches, crisps and a few biscuits having to be squashed in my coat pockets. I left in good time for the 10.15am ferry and trundled round the harbour, stopping half a dozen times to rest. After picking my way past a long queue of cars, through what is more like a building site than a pier (it is currently being extended - hence a few mornings being woken to the sound of pile-drivers reverberating around the harbour), I finally staggered onboard up a steep gangway. The ferry was so full, there weren't enough seats for everyone to sit down inside. A coachload of Americans spotted my friend the seal in the harbour, which kept them occupied for a few minutes.

It was a cold, dull day, but the crossing wasn't long, so I found a sheltered spot on the port side and stayed there. A disabled man was busy filming with an ancient cine camera, which I didn't think was very safe. As soon as you leant over the side, the wind nearly took your head off. The ferry carved its way through the grey sea and within thirty minutes we were docking at Armadale.

There was no sign of the Skye-ways Express coach I had expected to take to Portree, so I had to go on the red Highland bus which looked as though it had been built in the 1950s and never serviced since. There was another party of noisy backpackers, whose gear took up more room than they did. Consequently, I had to fight my way through to find a seat at the rear. I can safely say that it was the worse ride I've ever experienced. Although safety seemed the last thing on the driver's mind as he sped down the narrow roads, apparently convinced that his was the only vehicle on the island. If he'd gone any faster, I'm sure the whole bus would have disintegrated.

We sailed past the Clan Donald Centre at Armadale Castle which I remember visiting with my sister on our trip to Skye. Further along we stopped in the middle of nowhere to pick up a local lady standing by the roadside and later deposited her in an equally remote spot. It was hard to tell whether the driver actually knew her or not, as he called everyone "darling" and said "God bless, take care" whenever anybody got off. We left her bravely striding up an unmarked road with not a single house in sight, completely unfazed by his outpourings of endearment.

As we bounced along, places whizzed past the window and he soon started shouting a running commentary of which I heard only snatches over the wall of rolled-up ground mats and sleeping bags piled up in the middle of the bus. From where I was sitting I couldn't see him properly, just part of his face reflected in the rear view mirror, but I could tell that he kept turning around to make sure we were all listening. A European couple huddled together on the seat opposite looked over at me as if to say "Is really happening?". I feel sure that this mad Englishman must have long since acquired legend status in these parts.

We hurtled on across the barren wastes of the Sleat Peninsula until we joined the main north-south road at Broadford. I looked in vain for the turn-off which would have led me to my B+B last week. All I noticed was a petrol station and a newly opened serpentarium. We stopped for a little while and I made the most of being stationary to start my sandwiches. This journey was rougher than any of my sea crossings.

After this the road began to climb up through the Red Cuillins and along the coast. Fortunately it was two-way by this stage, but the ride was still pretty hair-raising, caught between towering mountains on the left and a steep drop into the sea on the right. To the relief of probably all the passengers, the driver was replaced by a younger man when we reached Sconser, the ferry point for the island of Raasay.

The campsite at Sligachan was a few miles further up and it was here that the group of originally exuberant campers got off. Despite the grey weather, the scenery was spectacular. Several of them eyed the terrain nervously and looked as though they were already having second thoughts. I overheard the last one off asking the driver the time of the next bus.

Eight miles later I could see the white houses of Portree in the distance. The approach to the "capital" reminded me a little of the road into Tobermory, which twists and turns to give glimpses of the town spread out around the harbour. After ninety tortuous minutes, we finally pulled into the main square. I asked the driver if he'd heard of my B+B. When he didn't sound too sure, I showed the address to one of the taxi drivers and set off on foot thinking it wouldn't be too far. I should really have got him to take me there, but I felt it would have been extravagant for an "independent" traveller. Having said that, I don't think he knew exactly where it was in any case.

I followed the street around as instructed and took the road signposted to the Cuillin Hills Hotel which he had mentioned. It went steeply down to a cabin of official-looking offices, down again to the sea and then forked. Both ways led up into dense trees and by this stage the last thing I wanted to do was walk up the wrong hill. I asked a lady who was parking her car nearby, but she was a visitor too. I chose the left fork and plodded upwards. Eventually I reached my destination. Or so I thought. Coollin Hills Gardens turned out to be a group of eight houses either side of a central gravel driveway. There was no sign of life to be seen or heard at any of them and none was called Conusg. I knocked on one door to no avail and tried another. As I began to despair, a lady finally answered, telling me that the address was all wrong and everyone always got confused. Much to my relief, the place was hidden behind trees a few hundred metres further up the hill, near a street sign proclaiming it to be the Coollin Hills Estate.

Mrs. Murray had gone shopping, so her grand-daughter showed me to my room. It's a bit pokey with no proper window, only a skylight in the slanting roof, but it does have a washbasin and the bathroom is next door. There's another single room (which looks nicer than mine) and two doubles across the landing. Downstairs there's a TV in the lounge-cum-dining room. Having been spoilt by the frilly comfort of Mrs. Watt's guest house, I think I'd put this on a level with Mrs. McEwan's chalet or perhaps just slightly above it. The place must be quite huge judging by the vast, white-washed front of the house which is decorated by two black cartwheels. Unfortunately, there's no view since the house is surrounded by trees, behind some of which sits the rear of the hotel.

Once I'd rested from the trials and tribulations of the journey, I braved the steep hills to walk back into town. A row of colourfully painted houses overlooks the harbour. I remember staying in one of them with my sister before we sailed to Harris. I had expected to recognise the main square, but there was nothing familiar about it. As the terminus for all the buses, it is bordered by the Police station, bank, church, bakery and at least four hotels. The main street with its café, butcher, chemist, newsagent, sports shop, antique shop and souvenir shops is a busy place, so much so that I had to walk on the road.

Opposite a church-turned-carpet warehouse, the Tourist Office is situated away from all the hustle and bustle in what used to be the local jail. Everything is packed into one small room up two flights of stairs. I'm surprised that it's so minuscule in relation to the number of visitors that come to Skye. People were trying to queue at the desk to book accommodation, but there wasn't enough space to form any sort of line. It overlooks the pier where I saw a signboard advertising daily cruises in the Sound of Raasay.

Having noticed forest walks marked on the map to the south of Portree, I went about a mile out of town along the main road. Almost every single house and bungalow has its "Bed and Breakfast" sign swinging in the garden, trying to outdo its neighbours. The trails start at the Aros Heritage Centre, a newly-opened multi-media exhibition about the history of Skye, complete with its own restaurant. After a quick walk with the midges in the Glen Varragill forest, it began to rain, so I had a browse around the gift shop and walked back to the town centre.

It was too early to go into the vegetarian bistro I had spotted in amongst the multi-coloured row of terraced houses, so I opted for a baked potato with cheese and coleslaw in the snack bar by the main square. When I returned to the B+B, Mrs. Murray apologised for not being there to greet me earlier and informed me that there is no-one else staying tonight. I can't help wondering how many guests she actually gets. Tucked away up here, it's not the sort of place you'd ever find by accident.

Having unpacked some of my things, I suddenly remembered that I probably ought to recharge the camcorder battery. It was then I discovered that the camcorder is no longer working. I tried it with the battery and using the mains, but it's just completely dead. I've not used it since Friday, but knew it was a bit odd when I removed its protective wrapping and found that the battery had come off. I can only think that it must have got jolted on the bus today, although I kept my bags with me on the seat. Perhaps this is what comes of having changed my schedule. If I'd come over to Skye on the day I originally planned, none of this might have happened.

Wednesday 7th July 1993 - Day 42

Needless to say there's no Sony dealer on the island. Mrs. Murray suggested I try the local photographer, but I didn't bother. The only place which sells camcorders is the electricity showroom, where a young girl told me they could perhaps send it off somewhere, but it would take at least a week. Having eventually acquired the telephone number of the shop where I bought it in Loughborough, a helpful assistant did some checking and rang me back in the box. It transpires that there are only two places in Scotland that could fix it, which means that I have to go to either Glasgow or Alloa. Never having heard of the latter, I went to the Tourist Office to find out where it was and how to get there. According to the map, it is just outside Stirling, so one of the staff photocopied all the appropriate pages of the bus and train timetables for me. After ringing both shops to see what my chances would be if I turned up on their doorstep, I have opted to go to Glasgow tomorrow. There's a direct bus and the man I spoke to seemed quite confident that they could look at it straight away. The chap in Alloa frightened me off by saying they might have to order spare parts from Amsterdam which would take at least three weeks and besides, it sounded awfully complicated to get to.

Despite all this, I still decided to go on the coach trip to Dunvegan Castle, in the knowledge that rain was forecast, so I wouldn't want to be out walking and I could do no more about the camcorder until tomorrow. The bus driver inevitably turned out to be the man I hold responsible for all my troubles, but at least the vehicle vaguely resembled a coach, unlike yesterday's bone-shaker. When we left at 10.30am, our party numbered a grand total of eighteen. On paying our £4.50, each of us was informed in turn that we had to retain our tickets and present them to obtain a discount on the castle entrance fee.

We set off northwards up the A850 across desolate flat land with hills in the distance. At Borve, the road heads east, looping around the middle prong of Skye all the way back to Portree. He promised to get us to Dunvegan Castle as quickly as possible, so we could make the most of our visit, but I would have preferred him to concentrate on just getting us there in one piece. For the club-fixated, he recommended a particular hotel we passed where you can play a round of golf then partake of a splendid Sunday lunch (I could hear him licking his lips). Not that any of us stood the remotest chance of ever getting there without transport, which obviously none of us had. His commentary was almost non-stop, but I wasn't really in the mood to listen to him rabbiting on. The names of most of the people he mentioned in his potted histories were prefixed by "dear", "dear beloved" or "dear darling". Since he considered us passengers to be part of his temporary family, we too were all his "dear darlings" and he referred to the bus as his "dear beloved chariot".

We reached Dunvegan around 11.15am and he told us when to come back, asking our overseas members to repeat 1.15pm to make sure they understood. He reminded us all to get our tickets out to claim the discount, although after hearing it eighteen times in Portree we were hardly likely to forget. I bet the kids love him if ever he drives the school bus. In case we didn't see the signs, he thoughtfully pointed out the toilets, or rather as he put it "apparatus for biological relief". I fear that much of his humour and rambling was lost on most of our principally foreign party. If he received any good offers on belongings left on the bus, he said he wouldn't hesitate to sell them off, but we shouldn't expect him to help us out if we got stuck in the dungeons. At the mention of torture, I thought it a pity he wasn't coming with us.

I remembered much of the castle from my previous visit, particularly the story of the Fairy Flag, of which precious little now remains. Legend has it that this sacred banner, believed to date from the seventh century, will bring success to the chief or his clan if unfurled in an emergency. However, the charm will only work on three occasions and it has already been used twice to secure MacLeod victories in battle.

As explained in a twelve-minute video presented by the current clan chief, parts of Dunvegan castle are thought to date from the ninth century, but building work has been carried out in almost every century since the 1200s when the MacLeods moved in. It is said to be the oldest inhabited castle in Scotland today.

After watching the video, I went out into the courtyard with its old well and cannon pointing through the ramparts. Several people went out on boat trips to the seal colony in the loch. I spent a while walking around the grounds, but the weather was rather damp to appreciate them much.

Inside there are family portraits galore with antique furniture, books, trophies and weapons. Showcases containing alsorts of medals and relics display such intriguing items as a lock of Bonnie Prince Charlie's hair and a pin cushion embroidered by Flora MacDonald. Taped moaning emanated from the depths of the dungeon. It sounded much more fun than having to suffer the ever-cheerful driver all the way back to Portree.

Everyone returned to the bus on time and we continued around the loop. I'm sure it was a scenic route, but as we drove through the gloomy hills, the clouds closed in and it started to rain. He stopped three or four times to describe what we should have seen and tried to keep us entertained with long monologues about sheep, crofts, whisky, piping, wildlife and anything else he could think of. He invited questions, but no-one dared ask much. I'm sure he could have carried on forever. At least he didn't get us playing games or singing, which would have been the last straw.

It was 3 o'clock when we arrived back in Portree. After sorting out what I'm going to do tomorrow, I had a baked potato with tuna in the place overlooking the main square, then went back to explain my plans to Mrs. Murray. She said I will be able to leave my belongings in the room, since she has no-one else booked and so I'll just take an overnight bag with me.

Thursday 8th July 1993 - Day 43

I woke early to the sound of rain beating down on the skylight. This wasn't a good start. Despite my waterproofs, I was still in a sorry state by the time I reached the main square for the 7.50am bus to Glasgow. Only a few other passengers were waiting, but we picked up more on the way down the island. All of us had to brave the wet again when we reached Kyleakin for the five-minute crossing to Kyle. A scaled-down service runs through the night and early morning, so we had to wait a while for the ferry to come over as its partner manoeuvred away from its berth in readiness for another day. A few miles later we passed Eilean Donan Castle. It seemed strange to see it again so soon after I'd wondered if it would take me another nine years to come back.

Around eleven, we stopped in Fort William for half an hour, then continued on the journey south. At one stage, I realised that we were going through the Pass of Glencoe which I visited on the coach tour from Oban weeks ago. It had been a pleasant, sunny day then and I remember the driver saying how much the mountains changed with the weather. The rain never stopped all morning and from what little I could see through the steamed-up windows, it looked more than just inhospitable. The landscape was a blur of green with lines of white water streaming down from the hill tops. Once out of the pass, we dropped down into a valley. I could only imagine what lay beyond the encircling gloom and thought how none of this should really have been happening.

After six hours on the road, the weather started to clear up and we entered the outskirts of Glasgow. Everywhere there were shops, restaurants and businesses, all from another world. At Buchanan Bus Station, I found a map of the city centre on the wall and managed to spot Alexandra Parade. It only seemed to be a few streets away past the University and Infirmary, so I scribbled down a rough little diagram and foolishly set off on foot. The independent traveller that I am told me not to bother with a taxi (not that I actually saw any) and sure enough the heavens soon opened and a vicious, umbrella-destroying wind rose up from nowhere. I regretted having taken off my waterproof trousers.

I had expected Alexandra Parade to be a shopping precinct rather than the run-down, industrial thoroughfare that it turned out to be, right next to the M8 inner ring road. I was dubious of finding any sort of electrical shop here and rightly so. The place is in fact purely a repair workshop, not a retail outlet. Dripping from head to foot, I related my plight and was dismayed to hear that no-one could do anything until tomorrow at the very earliest. I accepted that it was rather late in the day (it must have been 4 o'clock by this time), but repeated the promises I was given on the telephone that someone could look at it straight away. After explaining that I'd come all the way from Skye just for this and had a ferry to catch on Saturday, I told them about the extent of my trip and how I'd bought the camcorder specifically for it. Seeing my desperation, they finally agreed to examine it first thing tomorrow and told me to ring some time after 11am.

When the receptionist realised I was a complete stranger to the city and had nowhere to spend the night, she went off to confer with her colleagues. At one of their suggestions, I heard her say something along the lines of "No, you can't send her there, they say it's full of hookers these days". I could see I was going to love Glasgow. She returned with a couple of names and vague directions for which I was grateful, if slightly anxious. I didn't fancy trooping back into the city centre in the rain to find the Tourist Office and get sent off somewhere from there, so I followed her instructions into the back streets. I wandered a while, peering out of my hood desperately searching for one of the promised B+B signs. After passing several vandalised phone booths, I came to one of the roads she mentioned. The first guest house was fully booked, or perhaps they just didn't like the look of a bedraggled backpacker complete with out of place walking boots turning up on the doorstep unannounced.

At the next place, I was ushered in by a carpenter who had to check if the boss was free before letting me into the office. The man told me he had one room left, but only for tonight, impressing on me that he had a long-standing block booking for the weekend. Was I sure that I would only be staying one night? I dearly hoped so and paid him the £15 there and then to be done with it. He wrote it down in a book, next to his mobile phone and got the carpenter to show me the way. I wondered if it was all above board, but was too tired to go out and find somewhere else. The boss man looked something of a shady character. Maybe this carpenter was repairing a broken down door? I just hoped that the lock on my bedroom door would be good. I soon found out it isn't. The door and the frame weren't really designed for each other. According to the carpenter they're expecting a family tomorrow which is why there are three beds in the room. Perhaps he is the resident odd-job man? He certainly speaks of and to the other man with respect.

I sat for over an hour trying to dry out and recuperate, wondering how on earth I ever ended up here. Apart from the assortment of beds in my room, there's also a washbasin, TV and calor gas heater. Despite my initial doubts about the place, I have to say that the carpet is probably the cleanest I've seen so far. I was further reassured by the tourist leaflets and map I spotted in the hall when I went out. Having thought about it now, I've come to the conclusion that his business is perhaps wheeling and dealing in property development, rather than any other sort of commerce. I doubt it's been awarded any stars by the Tourist Board though.

From the map on the wall, I found out where this place is exactly and discovered that there is a direct route into the city centre from the end of the street. After a mile of derelict meat markets and council flats, I was pleased to see respectable office workers going home in the rush-hour. I ordered a tuna and prawn pizza in Pizza Hut and walked straight back, glad that the evenings are light at this time of the year.

Friday 9th July 1993 - Day 44

After a quieter than expected night, with the only disturbance being a party of what sounded like Chinese visitors scurrying between rooms, I woke to find the sun shining. The nightmare journey and threat of dens of iniquity seemed far away. I still wasn't too sure about the bathroom though and only dared use the shower to wash my hair, as the door is as ill-fitting as the one to my room.

I sat for a good ten minutes in the completely white dining room, patiently sipping from a one-gulp tumbler of orange and watching the Chinese devour their fried breakfasts. It looked increasingly as though nobody was coming to check on us, so in the end I went to find someone myself. Two men and a woman were chatting noisily in the kitchen. I asked for toast and she said something about a full cooked breakfast being included in the price of the room. The Chinese apparently had a long drive ahead of them and swiftly disappeared in a couple of hire cars. There was no sign of any marmalade on the table, but I considered myself lucky to be eating toast at all. It wasn't until two lads turned up (possibly the ones I'd eyed suspiciously last night as they entered the room next to me) that I realised it was hiding in what I'd assumed to be the sugar bowl. Perhaps the place wasn't as bad as I'd led myself to believe.

I was still pleased to leave and trotted back into the city centre to kill time. The Tourist Office was situated in a huge square lined with statues and banners. I didn't buy a souvenir postcard, as I doubted I would want to be reminded of this particular episode, whatever happened with the camcorder. To my dismay there were no free leaflets or brochures for the picking. I did however manage to find some science magazines to read in Menzies which was virtually the largest newsagent's I've ever seen. The sale at British Home Stores caught my attention and I managed to buy myself a little zip purse for £1.32 (my original one having recently died on me after about fifteen years' loyal service).

Having spotted several shops selling camcorders in the pedestrian precincts in case there was nothing for it but to buy a new one, I nervously started looking for a telephone box. At least I felt prepared for the worst. A voice on the other end of the line was unsure as to why I was ringing. It was working perfectly and ready for collection. I made him repeat what he'd said, scarcely daring to believe it was true. I rushed straight over, knowing that the bus back to Skye left at 3pm. After a sudden fear that they might be closed for lunch, I was doubly relieved to walk straight in and test it for myself. They had merely stripped it down, found no faults and re-assembled it, whereupon it worked. It must have been a loose connection. For some reason though, the battery didn't function (possibly due to the knock it must have received to dislodge it in the bus), so I bought another to be on the safe side. As I packed it carefully in my rucksack, I chatted to the engineer who came from one of the places I've visited. Then the lady receptionist came out of the rear office eating one of her sandwiches to ask me if I'd managed to find somewhere suitable to stay last night. I didn't say that it wasn't one of the B+Bs she'd mentioned. It was already fading from my memory. With smiles all round, I gleefully set off ready for the Western Isles.

With enough time in hand to return to the shops, I bought myself some food from Boots and M+S, then headed back to the bus station. The coach was almost full when we left, but the numbers gradually dwindled as we drove north. Other than the occasional shower, it was mostly sunny. In fact the contrast with yesterday's journey was so great, that it was almost as though we had taken a different route. Driving along the banks of Loch Lomond, I could see tourists queuing for trips on pleasure boats.

At the Bridge of Orchy, we dropped off two campers just as a passing shower went overhead. Leaving them to scramble into their waterproofs, we drove into what looked like the set of a science fiction film: a vast plateau strewn with rocks and boulders. Pools of water were dotted on either side of the road, some containing tiny islands bearing clumps of windswept trees and each worthy of preservation on a postcard. Weird, wild and unearthly, it seemed the sort of place where you could easily disappear and never be found. Overlooking the glacial moonscape were the Grampian mountains, dark and sinister, occasionally glistening as the evening sunlight caught the wet rock. I wanted this flat, inhospitable land to go on and on forever, but the coach began to climb and we entered the Valley of the Shadow of Death. The White Corries, The Three Sisters, Glencoe. All the mountain streams were still gushing with yesterday's rain, carving their way down the hillside. The haunting cry sounding in the name of Ballachulish signalled our exit from this other world and we passed back into less lunar surrounds.

The fir-lined shores of Loch Linnhe led us to Fort William where the summit of Ben Nevis was still shrouded in mist. After a twenty-minute stop, four Skyemen got on and sat drinking and smoking all the way to Portree. I deduced that they were returning home for the weekend from jobs on the mainland. Apart from them and me, the only other passenger was a German girl going to work in the backpackers' hostel in Kyleakin for a second season.

For two hours we wound our way along the lochs, back past my favourite castle to perform the ritual walking on and off the ferry which presumably forms part of the safety regulations. Besides, foot passengers are carried free. The driver and his mate sang raucous songs of their own Elvis-style invention as we rode through the mountains. Scenery-wise at least, the journey to Portree was the best of the three I have experienced in virtually the same number of days. As we climbed higher though, we began to meet clouds coming down from the north. Ahead of us the sky was black. They dropped me off in the main square around 9.15pm and I just made it back to the B+B before it started to rain. It seemed only right somehow.

..... Go to the next chapter ......

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May 1998