Glen Coe
When I think about magnificent, awe-inspiring sights in Scotland, Glen Coe is one of the first to come to mind. In what was once an explosive volcano, a river and a road now snake through the glen, surrounded by commanding lush mountains. On a lucky day, the sun and clouds cast contrasting light on different planes and throw patches of brilliant yellow-greens among the darker viridian hues. Pictures can't really touch the magnitude of these mountains - the way their summits are lost in the mist and how their chasms beckon exploration. It's no wonder so many catch Munro fever here - the desire to climb to the top of each mountain like the famous surveyor, Sir Hugh Monro. And it's no wonder that so many are airlifted out. Perhaps the enchantment of this place addles the wits of unprepared hikers. And still, I want to be one of them.
We pulled off the side of the road and began climbing up one side of a mountain. This was my first true sight of Scottish heather, and alongside it, Ross crushed up the mountain thyme in his hand to let me affirm the identification by its fragrance. The hike was breathtaking, in more ways than one, and it felt powerful to take in the expansive view from a new height. We wanted so badly to keep hiking up this mountain and the others around it. There is something special about the way these mountains give way to alternating rock and soft vegetation. They feel entirely supportive of life, in this realm or a mystical one.
We continued on, pressing toward Skye, which would be our next day's destination. Lunch was in a little town whose name eludes me, but they had one main street with lots of pedestrian traffic and a cute stone church. I just had an earl grey tea at a cafe, weighed down by too many regular meals out. We also caught a glimpse of the famous "Harry Potter Train," AKA the Jacobite Express. While we didn't get the traditional oncoming shot due to a schedule change, we were lucky to hear the train chugging along behind us at another stop with enough time to set up our cameras.
Before arriving at our final destination, we stopped at the Silver Sands Beach of Morar. As the name implies, it is a string of beaches with fine white sand, and from here you can see views of small neighboring isles. Walking on this beach felt like making a trek through flour since the sand was so soft, and it soon became necessary to make our path closer to the water where a pack of Australian shepherd puppies were playing. This, of course, was a clear bonus.
Finally, we arrived in our stay for the next two nights, Plockton. This tiny harbor town boasts three true restaurants, one of which happened to be closed, and the other two booked for the rest of the night. "You could come back at eight-thirty, and try the waiting list," one of the hostesses said. We weren't willing to bet our hunger on those odds, so we headed over to the tiniest food shack you've ever seen along the roadside. There was a long line.
"What do you think macaroni pie is?" I asked Alex. I felt a pang of empathy for the people who worked within, knowing myself what it is like to come home smelling like food grease. "You know, of course, to be careful of haggis from less reputable sources..." our ex-pat tour member told us. "Since it's made from the digestive track, you want to make sure it's been well-cleaned." Grease, dubious pies, and suspicious haggis. This was our option. Just as we were about to order, Ross came over and beckoned us back to the bus. Those of us who hadn't ordered drove with him to a neighboring Skye town where we were able to sit and eat without the threat of a storm ruining our dinner. We finished the evening with a round of drinks at the Plockton Inn, standing room only. This tiny town was bursting at the seams.
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