On the Isle of Skye

When we last left our heroines and hero, they were speeding away from Eileen Donan Castle towards the Isle of Skye, a large island off the west coast of Scotland, perhaps best known for its associations with the maligned Bonnie Prince Charlie as he fled the English and attempted to regain the Scottish throne in the mid-18^th century.

I was in the driver’s seat of our rented Volvo. My uncle sat next to me, trying to stay awake. (Apparently he has a tendency to fall asleep as soon as he and my aunt hit the road on their frequent weekend road trips.) My aunt sat in the back, gamely passing up snacks from our food stash when requested. Mostly shortbread.

We crossed a big metal bridge and passed through town after town on Skye’s east coast—it was much more heavily populated than I had anticipated—until we reached the turn-off to a small country road heading inland that would take us to our destination: a rural bed and breakfast on the other side of the island. In my memory, the drive along that narrow two-lane road to an even narrower, single-track road that lead to our B&B took at least two hours. In reality, it was probably more like 45 minutes. 

We were in the middle of nowhere. Our B&B didn’t have a street address, and the “town” it was in—which didn't have a formal name—was nothing more than a string of houses along a couple of adjoining roads. The instructions from our hostesses directed us to drive along a nameless rural road—more of a lane, really—until we saw a telephone box. Just beyond that was the private drive that passed through two fields of grazing sheep (“Slow! Lambs!” read one sign posted near the entrance) to our lodging. Yep, middle of nowhere—but there was WiFi (sort of) and an excellent hot shower and delicious home-cooked breakfast every morning, so we were content.

Looking south toward the nameless hamlet where we stayed. Our B&B is on the far left.

The Isle of Skye is mysterious and brooding, moody and windswept, yet curiously serene. She knows herself and makes no apologies, but welcomes those who would probe her depths—although I don’t think anyone could ever uncover all her secrets. Clouds and sunlight intertwine over and around the island in a fast, complicated, elegant, sometimes violent dance. Always have your rain jacket handy on Skye and be prepared for glorious views when the sun does come out.

 

Neist Point Lighthouse is perched on a narrow spit of land on Skye’s northwestern coast. It sits high above the waves, where the wind howls around it constantly, looking towards the islands of the Outer Hebrides. To get there, we drove on curving single-track roads through tiny towns and past countless sheep. Finally we crossed over a cattle grate set in the road, went around a bend, and arrived at a tiny parking lot already packed with cars. We tumbled out, secured our jackets and our cameras, and began the descent down the hill to the peninsula. 

My aunt walks down the path to get to the lighthouse.

Sheep roamed freely, paying us no heed. We had to watch our step as we walked along the path, which bore ample squishy evidence that they were the real masters of that estate.

Neist Point Lighthouse

The lighthouse has been inhabited in the past although it was all locked up and seeminly deserted when we arrived. Sheep lounged on the inner courtyard lawn with a bored expression, oblivious to the wind. 

Further down the peninsula, large stones and scores of rock cairns littered what turned out to be a somewhat marshy field on top of the cliff. 

The bright sky was white-gray with clouds. Wind blasted our faces. The beach and cliffs to the south begged to be photographed and I obliged. Dull blue-brown Islands emerged in the misty distance to the west.

Cliffs and sea (seen through a dramatic filter on my camera).

 

We found lunch in a village several miles away before spending the afternoon visiting the ruins of an old church—which, according to local legend, fell into ruins when one clan trapped and burned another inside it for revenge—and shopping for impossibly soft, fluffy sheep skins (my aunt) and only slightly-scratchy sweaters (me). I bought a sweater the color of moss and lichen and well-watered Scottish fields that warmed me during many of the cold days of the trip that followed.

The next day we drove to the northeast of the island for a hike up to the popular Old Man of Storr, an imposing gray monolith balanced vertically on its tip atop a steep, tall hill. It had been raining off-and-on all morning and showed no signs of clearing. We donned our rain gear and set out for the mountain.

The Old Man of Storr

While the first half of the trail was composed of well-groomed, gentle switchbacks, the second half entailed picking our way along a sloping, muddy, rocky trail worn by years of hikers making their way to the top. Every so often, we stopped and turned to take in the view of adjoining lochs below.

The view from the a third of the way up.

 

That trail took us only to the base of the hilltop, so to speak, where it split into different directions. It was so windy there near the top, I honestly thought I might lose my balance! 

Windy!

(For scale: there are people at the base of that rock, but they're too small to see in this photo. It was HUGE.)

 

The trail that appeared to be the most direct also looked to be too treacherous even for these intrepid hikers and we cast our eyes around for an alternative. 

What appeared to be the most direct route was also quite treacherous!

We chose a path that curved inland around the hilltop and pressed on, entering a secluded, alien landscape strewn with huge boulders. Sheer rock walls turned the area into a wind tunnel and mist obscured the view far ahead, adding to the drama and mystery of the place. 

Going around the back.

Alien landscape, with mist.

 

As we came around the other side, we spotted a sign which at one time had warned hikers not to go the way from which we’d just come because it was too dangerous. Whoops!

Too late now!

Backpackers take a break before attempting the final ascent (which is out of the frame on the left).

The Old Man was really towering above us now, get-a-kink-in-your-neck-when-you-look-at-it towering. We crested a slope and eyed the final segment of trail to get right up next to him. It was extremely steep and rocky.

“What do you think?” my uncle asked. “Should we do it?”

I hesitated for a moment then replied, “We’ve come this far, we might as well go all the way.”

With a nod, he scrambled up the last bit of trail and I followed behind him, using both my hands and my feet to get up the incline. We stood upright, precarious, on the narrow ledge at the foot of the Old Man, taking it all in. Other hikers jostled for space to take photos or sit down for a few minutes’ rest. Although it was still overcast and raining intermittently, the view was outstanding and our sense of accomplishment at having climbed all the way to the top even greater.  

We did it!

We went down by a different route and met my aunt—who had split off at the halfway point to do her own, less-ambitious, more knee-friendly hike—at the car, where we marveled at our accomplishment and reveled in the endorphin-high that came with it. 

Another view from the top.

 

That evening, after making a circuit of the northeastern peninsula with several stops en route, we headed to a quaint old inn-slash-pub with low ceilings and tiny windows in a tiny fishing hamlet called Stein—really just a row of white-washed buildings at the bottom of a hill, facing the water. 

The hamlet of Stein.

Outside it was bleak and cold. Inside, we had whisky and wine and hot mint tea and hearty potatoes for dinner. My cheeks felt wind-burned and rosy, my belly was full, and my heart felt as content as it could be.

Surrounded by lovely heather on the Isle of Skye.