SKYE - Gateway to the stars

Saturday 4th September 1993 - Day 101

A little later than scheduled, Iain came to pick me up in his flashy red car and we set off with his parents down the western shore of Loch Ness. Although it was as grey as the day I went on the coach tour, I still kept my eyes glued to the surface of the water just in case the monster thoughtfully put in an appearance. Before long, we cut across country towards Loch Cluanie and the sky grew brighter. In every direction, mountains towered over three thousand feet above us. Brilliant sunshine created deep shadows in the corries worn into the hillsides. Such huge hollows must surely be the source of much folklore, ideally shaped as they are for giants to slide into.

Soon we were whizzing past Eilean Donan Castle which shimmered above a perfectly still Loch Duich, then it was straight on to an almost empty ferry at Kyle of Lochalsh for the short ride over to Skye. In complete contrast to my somewhat ill-fated visit two months ago, visibility was such that I could see mountains I never even dreamt existed. Having seen so little of the island previously, I now realise that in good weather it is more magnificent than I could possibly have imagined.

The road twisted and turned along the coastline, winding up through the Cuillins and on towards Portree. As we neared the capital, I was surprised to see an enormous pinnacle of stone sprouting up from behind a ridge some miles further north. Instantly recognisable from a whole series of postcards and photographs, it was The Old Man of Storr. I remember glimpsing it once through the low cloud in July, but I hadn't expected it to appear so striking on a clear day.

After less than three hours on the road, Iain kindly dropped me at the B+B, then sped off to the ferry at Uig. Welcoming me back, Mrs. Murray informed me there was to be a gala this afternoon around the harbour where the coastguard would be putting on an air-sea rescue display. When I reached the pier, it was relatively quiet except for a few people looking at an old wooden sailing ship. I sat for a while watching the early stages of the raft-building competition and waited for something to happen. Eventually as the street filled up, the programme of events was announced over the loudspeakers and apologies were made for the late arrival of the Pipe Band. When I learnt that the coastguard wouldn't be there until 4pm, I decided to walk back out of town to get a shot of The Old Man of Storr while the weather was still good.

Upon my return, the sailing ship was lying a few hundred metres out in the bay. Suddenly, smoke came from some sort of can on its deck and three volunteers jumped overboard. A red and white helicopter zoomed miraculously in from nowhere and winched one out of the water. As it hovered over the other two, whipping up the water, blowing the sailing ship ever closer to three nearby boats and violently tossing all of them about, I began to hope that the poor fellows were strong swimmers. Next, the lifeboat, festooned with pennants from stem to stern, swept around and manoeuvred through a small gap between the various craft to finally pick the men up. Almost as quickly as it had arrived, the chopper disappeared around the corner and was gone.

The stalls, magic castle and coconut shy were now busy with people, so I made my escape into the less congested town centre. Looking in the shop windows down the main street, I noticed a tea towel carrying a fuller version of the inscription I saw on a bench at the very beginning of my trip on Arran. Apparently known as the Canadian Boat Song, it already brings a tear to my eye with its nostalgic verse, even though I am still here in my beloved isles.

From the lone shieling of the misty island
Mountains divide us, and a waste of seas; yet
Still the blood is strong; the heart is Highland
And we in dreams behold the Hebrides

After scoffing some sandwiches for tea, I decided to explore the road heading north and soon discovered that less than a mile out of Portree I had a wonderful view of The Black Cuillins. In an otherwise completely blue sky, two lone strands of candyfloss cloud hung around the distant mountain tops and slowly vaporised to reveal the jagged ridge of Sgurr nan Gillean (The Peak of the Young Men).

The mesmerising effect of the evening light gave a surreal quality to the scene and convinced me that returning to Skye was the right way to round off my trip. It was one of those special occasions when I felt I didn't want to break the spell, but back to the B+B I walked as the sun was setting. There, I realised another of my dreams thanks to the clear weather and the skylight in the roof: I fell asleep looking at the stars.

Sunday 5th September 1993 - Day 102

To make the most of what was evidently going to be another gloriously sunny day, I resolved to travel back down the island and over to my favourite castle which looked so photogenic yesterday. The Glasgow bus left at 10am and drove south through hills so magnificent that I wished I could have filmed the entire route. Across the sea, a wavy line of peaks undulated on the mainland with a richness and clarity of colour I have rarely seen.

The crossing from Kyleakin was enlivened by yet another coachload of German tourists. As we waited to cast off, they admired the outline of the fourteenth century Castle Moil overlooking the narrow straits and remained blissfully unaware of the monstrous bridge taking shape a short distance to the north.

After a short stop in Kyle of Lochalsh, the driver dropped me eight miles down the road at Dornie. Immediately, I set about filming the castle from every possible angle. Its stone walls rose up from the tiny island just as they do on a thousand postcards, then reflected in the glassy water of the loch was the famous arched causeway. In the distance, the hills of Skye formed such a scenic backdrop, they appeared almost to have been hand-painted. Whilst every passing motorist stopped to take a photo in these ideal conditions, several professional photographers were out with their tripods, an artist stood painting in the sun and even a helicopter circled around with a cameraman dangling his feet in the air.

Away from them all, I found a bench facing the less picturesque side and ate my lunch alone, savouring every precious moment I could rest my eyes on this castle. As a child I spent many mealtimes looking at the picture of it my grandmother had taken from an old calendar and kept on her dining room wall. Over the years it has attained a sort of quasi-religious status in my mind, as if it were my personal sacred place. In my flat in Paris I had postcards of it arranged in an almost shrine-like manner. I remember how excited I was one afternoon when I was planning the trip and suddenly realised that I might be able to see it again. Just imagining and anticipating that opportunity made my day. Now, after months of travelling, searching and discovering, my pilgrimage through my grandmother's, my mother's and my own heritage is complete.

When finally I walked through the gates and over the causeway into the castle, I experienced a most peculiar sensation to which I hardly dare admit. Somewhat inexplicably for an atheist, I felt as though I was meeting God. Perhaps it was simply because I had been away for so long and inside I knew that I had at last come home. I had reached my ultimate destination and my journey was over. Or maybe it was the ghosts of my ancestors welcoming me back. After all, for centuries Eilean Donan Castle was the stronghold of the Mackenzies, my grandmother's clan.

Historically, the castle, like most in these parts, has had a rather chequered past. Originally built in 1220 by Alexander II as a defence against the Vikings, it subsequently came into the possession of the Mackenzies. Then in 1719, whilst acting as a garrison for Spanish troops fighting for the Jacobite cause, it was reduced to rubble by three English warships. Restoration work was only started two hundred years later and not completed until 1932.

Inside, only two rooms are open to the public. With walls over four metres thick and a barrel-vaulted ceiling, the billeting room contains numerous paintings and weapons, plus various items of furniture and china. Upstairs, the banqueting hall displays flags, shields, trophies, portraits and other clan memorabilia including a lock of hair from Bonnie Prince Charlie.

Retracing my way down the stone stairs, I emerged in the courtyard and studied the battlements. From there, a vast expanse of blue lay spread out below me. To the north-west, touching the pearl-like edges of the firmament, the mountain tops of Skye took on a purple hue. A yacht sailed into the sun down Loch Duich and the water it disturbed glistened with dancing sunbeams.

I then left the fortress and followed the path around the perimeter of the rocky islet. With time in hand before the bus was due to return at 3pm, I was able to have another contemplative sit down, gazing at the castle and its perfect reflection. As the smooth surface of the loch held onto its mirror image, I closed my eyes and hoped I would remember it forever.

Disappointed at having to leave, I boarded the coach and found myself to be the sole passenger for the scenic ride back to Portree. Later, with the satisfaction that comes from knowing you can achieve your dreams, I fell asleep again under the stars.

Monday 6th September 1993 - Day 103

In the hope of seeing more of the northern half of the island than the last time I came, I decided to go on the Dunvegan Castle bus trip again. I awoke to find the sky obstinately overcast, but at least the grey clouds were relatively high and visibility was better than in July.

Since there were only fourteen of us in his "happy family" today, the driver was disappointed that we were just one short of a shinty team or a Grand Jury. He flew along in his "dear beloved chariot" at his usual break-neck speed to get us to the castle by 11.15am.

Having already visited the interior twice now, I only bought a ticket for the gardens where the stillness of the air meant I was plagued by midges. I headed off into the wooded surrounds and came across a track that led up the coastline. On the peninsula opposite were two flat-topped peaks, each five hundred metres high. Known as Macleod's Tables, they seem to have a strange layered structure rather like a scone which has risen and expanded in the oven.

For lunch I ate my sandwiches at the picnic tables near the castle jetty. A robin came within a couple of metres of me, evidently oblivious of my presence. Then suddenly I noticed something swimming down the coast. It dived under the water before I had chance to get a proper look, but I'm pretty sure it was my very first sighting of an otter. Later, in a craft no bigger than a rowing boat, the Japanese girls from our party were taken out into the loch to look for seals.

Once we were all back on the bus, we wound our way around the shores of Loch Caroy and Loch Bracadale gazing at scone-like cliffs and tiny islands. I wondered if it was perhaps South Uist I saw in the distance. The weather had closed in so completely by this stage on my July trip that then I had no idea of what was out there.

This time we stopped at Glendrynoch and Sligachan to view the Cuillins in close-up. The Japanese girls insisted on taking a photo of the driver in front of Sgurr nan Gillean. Apparently he reaches sixty-five next year, but doesn't want to retire, despite recently losing his voice. On his permanently screeching microphone, he recounted one of doubtless numerous memorable moments of his career. In a particularly remote spot one winter he told us, the packed schoolbus he was driving started to slide down an icy slope. Fortunately, for once he managed to control his "chariot" and avoided disaster. When we returned to Portree, he was in a rush to get away to his next job of picking up the kiddywinks from school and transporting them all home - safely I hope.

Tuesday 7th September 1993 - Day 104

Today I went on the Trotternish peninsula tour with the driver assuring us that he had taken his daily dose of "tartan tablets". We began by crossing an expanse of moorland where the heather had turned purple and the bracken orangey-brown. Our first stop was near the small tower known as Captain Fraser's Folly overlooking Uig of which I saw so little when I caught the ferry there that abysmal day in July a thousand miles ago. This morning the horizon remained a hazy, grey blur and it was impossible to tell where the Western Isles might lie or if indeed they were still out there.

Shortly after leaving the village, we came to a hairpin bend up the hill. Inevitably, the driver miscalculated his approach and we found ourselves stuck across the road. During the lengthy manoeuvring that followed, I couldn't tell if the lady behind me was actually praying or just too frightened to open her eyes. Another vehicle came around the next corner just as we were finally pointing in the right direction. Unperturbed, the driver thanked us for our "moral support" and chugged on upwards amidst more than one sigh of relief.

Five miles further north we stopped for three-quarters of an hour by the Skye Museum of Island Life which comprises half a dozen thatched cottages and an old smithy. From there, a track leads up to the cemetery containing the grave of Flora MacDonald who is said to have been buried in a sheet slept in by Bonnie Prince Charlie. This spot is not far from where she first landed with the Young Pretender disguised as her maid as he tried to flee to France. In the nineteenth century, a huge Celtic cross was erected here and inscribed with a tribute from Dr. Johnson who met her when he was on his famous tour of Scotland.

By now the wind was getting up and the sun had started to break through. The nearby cliffs looked steep and dark. Fairly certain that they were the ones I used to see from my window in Tarbert, I scoured the horizon for a last glimpse of Harris, but it was not to be. A short distance offshore lay several small islands. Strangely, some of them began to move and the haze lifted just enough for me to realise that I was watching a naval taskforce. As the ships sailed into view I recognised minehunters and a frigate, probably Belgian or German, all heading up the coast. Once back on the bus, we followed them for a couple of miles until our photo stop at Duntulm Castle. Abandoned around 1730 by the MacDonalds, it now lies in ruins, too dangerous to be visited and soon to fall into the sea.

Cutting inland across the tip of the peninsula, we continued around our circuit past the weird formations of the Quiraing. From what I could see from the road, these mountains appeared just as unearthly as the pictures in the brochures had led me to believe. At Flodigarry, the driver pointed out where Flora MacDonald once lived and had five of her seven children.

Our scheduled stop for lunch was further down the road at Staffin where the driver evidently had an agreement with the local community centre. Seventeen people including three I recognised from yesterday disappeared into the restaurant with him and I made my escape fearing that he would probably have them all singing by the end of the meal.

Instead, I yomped back about a mile so I could at least see part of the Quiraing in the distance as I chomped on my sandwiches. Dominating the white houses scattered at its feet, this massive upthrust of rock would seem to belong to another planet. Amidst a setting that has been used for at least one automobile advert, I stood overlooking Staffin Bay. Before me lay a stretch of road that is probably the only flat, straight section on the island. The driver told us it is here that the locals come to test their new cars.

No sooner were we on our way than we found ourselves stopping at the Mealt waterfall with its three hundred foot drop into the sea. Often the water from the loch never reaches the ocean, but gets blown away by the wind. The spot is also a popular viewpoint for the Kilt Rock where columns of dolerite, rather like the black basalt of Staffa, form what appear to be pleats in the cliff. So dangerous is this part of the coast, that it has been wisely fenced off.

Inland, a great ridge of hills was silhouetted against a grey sky as an orange glow on the horizon tried to push its way forward. We continued on our way down the peninsula to our final photo stop at the southern tip of Loch Fada. Sadly, despite its early promise, the sun never quite managed to burn off the clouds and an ethereal haze enveloped everything. As sheep wandered silently around us, we gazed at the stone pinnacle of The Storr made all the more mysterious by the increasingly murky atmosphere. Like a scene from a fairytale, had I blinked, I'm sure it would all have vanished.

Wednesday 8th September 1993 - Day 105

With a return to the glorious weather of last weekend, I decided to walk back up the road to Staffin. Just before the Achachork turning, about a mile out of Portree, I came across a camp site and realised that this was the reason for all the unsavoury characters I saw on Saturday evening when I was marvelling at the hills. Today, as I looked back into the sun, the Cuillins appeared as a dark, shadowy mass.

I followed the newly-resurfaced, narrow road as it wound its way across the peaty landscape. Cutting through rich greens and yellows patterned with warm browns, this smooth, black line of tarmac was a joy to walk on after so many uneven tracks and trails. Just as that Sunday when I first stepped into the mosaic of colours that make up North Uist, this morning the moon was there again to greet me, perched up in an azure sky.

Before me in perfect focus was the scene that has adorned a hundred postcards. On the still waters of Loch Fada sat a solitary islet shaded by a single tree. Above it towered The Storr. A massive slab of grass-covered rock, so geometrically pleasing as to be almost unnatural, slants downwards then abruptly falls away into a steep black wall. To the side stands the 160-foot rugged stone stack known as the Old Man of Storr, sculpted by the Highland climate.

Thursday 9th September 1993 - Day 106

After moving up country over the last couple of days, the rain eventually reached Skye today which gave me a chance to have a final postcard-writing session. By 6pm, the weather had cleared up and the Cuillins were illuminated once again by the setting sun. I went down to the bay and amused myself for a good hour looking at the pebbles, many of which were strangely purple and volcanic in appearance.

Friday 10th September 1993 - Day 107

For my final day in the islands I wanted to return to the Quiraing. The only way for me to get there was on the service bus which goes up the east side of the peninsula, stops for about fifteen minutes and then drives back down again. It left just after eleven o'clock with a few locals onboard plus three backpackers going to the hostel at Flodigarry and three tourists attempting to do the round trip by changing to another bus at Kilmaluag. With the weather being brighter than it was on Tuesday, I was fortunate to see more of the little islands off the coast and also the Torridian hills on the mainland. In the sun, The Storr seemed even more spectacular than ever when we drove past.

The driver dropped me at Flodigarry not far from the footpath that leads into the hills. A couple of hundred metres down the track I stopped. It was as though I had stumbled upon some sort of fairy glen. Hidden in the folds of the land amongst the copper bracken and purple heather was a small loch. Around me towered the mountains with their gaunt, steep, dark faces shielding me from all that lay outside their domain.

I recited the Canadian Boat Song to myself and felt satisfied that I had definitely achieved everything I set out to do. My journey was complete and my heart was filled with joy. I could have stayed there quite peacefully for ever, surrounded by the things I love most: water and rock, my favourite elements. And the magical quality of the light that makes you believe none of this can be real. Here on the last day of my quest, I discovered my very own Wonderland.

Knowing that in reality I had to return to the road, I walked down a little way to a spot where the driver could pull in. As I waited, I scanned the landscape as if I could perhaps imprint it on my memory and searched for some more stones so as to carry part of this mystical place away with me. All too soon though the time for wishing the bus would never come was over.

A few clouds were arriving from the sea, then quite unexpectedly it started to rain, but I felt as though I'd already reached the end of my particular rainbow. As we drove past The Storr again, white clouds floated around the top between the peak itself and the pinnacle of rock. To the east, I could at last see the island of Raasay lying just off the coast. To the south, the Cuillins stood outlined against the sky. The shower soon passed overhead, yet I knew that I had long since been cleansed of everything far away I had wished to escape. There was just me and the islands. So many beautiful things to look at all at once, I scarcely knew where to turn. My eyes filled with tears of happiness.

Later, when I got back into town, I took the footpath around what is known as the Lump which sticks out into Portree Bay. It's a pleasant, quiet spot away from traffic and people, probably undiscovered by tourists for most of the season. From the wooded sides, it is easy to reach the flat, grassy top where the Highland Games are staged. I sat up there late into the afternoon looking out to sea and reflecting upon life.

Tonight, my last night in the islands, my journey came full circle. Remembering that I spent my very first evening in Arran eating fish and chips by the sea, I walked down to the take-away shop on the pier. Behind the counter stood a fridge full of garishly coloured fizzy drinks. Unable to resist buying a bottle of bright green limeade, identical to the "pop" my grandmother used to give me, I went outside and let my thoughts drift back over the days, months, years that have passed.

Saturday 11th September 1993 - Day 108

Sitting on the 7.50am bus to Inverness in the damp, misty centre of Portree, I thought back to the morning I left Melton station in the pouring rain when I so wanted to experience every mile that took me north. Today, sad at having to travel south, I looked out at Skye and tried to hold on to every inch.

The cloud was just about as high as the mountain tops, but occasionally summits broke through and patches of blue sky appeared around them like halos. Within an hour we were crossing over to the mainland and a slight drizzle set in, making Eilean Donan Castle seem somehow all the more impressive. As we drove through the hills towards Cluanie, there was little sign of habitation. Not even a single telegraph pole, that generally ubiquitous symbol of the twentieth century.

Here in this land of living history, it was easy to imagine that the terrain and weather have never changed since Scotland was first created. Looking up into the mist, I half-expected to see a band of kilted warriors come charging down the hillside to ambush an enemy clan camped by the white water of the mountain streams. I'm sure they were there somewhere. I could sense their presence in the air. Just out of sight, just out of reach on the other side of reality, the one you can never quite see, but can always feel is there in the Highlands.

Another time, another world.

..... Read the epilogue ......

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May 1998