Honeymoon Roundup - A Day on Skye

Skye
The morning started out hopeful and sunny as we made our way out of Plockton and onto Skye, but the forecast promised the weather would turn, staying true to Skye's nickname as the Misty Isle. So we used the little sunlight we had to catch glimpses of the Red Cuillins and Black Cuillins - sure enough that afternoon, they were lost in cloud cover. The Red Cuillin Mountains are named for the reddish hue of their granite, and they are lower, more rounded mounds than the sharper peaks of the igneous and basalt Black Cuillins. These views were chock full of gorgeous textures - the impending clouds, the magnificent mountains, rolling hills becoming more saturated with color, glassy lochs, and wild vegetation.

From there we pressed on to see the famed Old Man of Storr, and his lesser known wife, the Old Woman of Storr. As the story goes, these were once a lively young couple who enjoyed climbing the mountain everyday to tell each other stories. As they are wont to do in the British Isles, the fairies were always listening. They loved hearing the stories told by the young man and woman, but over the years time took its toll on their bodies and the woman said one day that she didn't think she could keep climbing the high mountain. The man agreed and they decided that the next time they came up the mountain would be their last, and they would tell their very best stories. The fairies didn't want the stories to stop, however, so they made their own plan. When the old man and old woman came to tell their last stories, they turned them both to stone so they could never leave, and they would stay with the fairies forever. Alex said to me, "Couldn't the fairies just have used their magic to fix their arthritis or something?"

Onward, as the wind picked up, toward the Trotternish Ridge with its hairpin turns and otherworldly landscape. We began our ascent, making stops at the edge of the earth to watch the cliffs slip into the sea. The wind was more forceful now, and we were exposed without tree or building cover. The grasses whipped as we stood at the edges balancing ourselves, but creeping as close as we dared to feel the magnitude of where we were.

Kilt Rock offered another look at the hexagonal basalt columns that we had seen on Staffa, this time with an accompanying waterfall. The ledge was lined with a hollow metal railing that made a strange singing sound when the wind passed over its holes. One brave young bagpiper braced himself against the weather here to take advantage of the tourist hotspot.






As we found the top of the Trotternish, a gorgeous alien landscape extended below us - sweeping, fuzzy formations that looked like a frozen crashing wave. The best spots for viewing the expanse were reduced to mud, indicative of Skye's recent popularity.


We tried our best to capture all the peaks and valleys of the place, but the wind became more insistent and rain (perhaps some hail as well) began pelting us. It is difficult to run with freezing rain stabbing you in the face and eyes, but when there is camera equipment to be saved, you make it work.




















With moistened sweaters, dripping hair, and heavy breathing, we were relieved to be on the bus again. We were headed to Portree and its characteristic colorful harbor for lunch. There we found something of a sports bar for a nice warm lunch and made reservations for dinner when we would return. Portree is a lovely little town, but in all honesty, this is the only part that looks like this. None of the other buildings are candy-colored, so don't let the postcards fool you. Get your shot, then enjoy the very real town on the other side.

While many in our group had been hoping to see Skye's famed Fairy Pools, the weather simply wouldn't allow for two hours of slogging through the grass. Ross also explained that in order to see that beautiful turquoise color in the pools, the sun really needs to be shining. Instead, we comforted ourselves with Fairy Glen and Dunvegan Castle with its themed gardens.


Our quick trek along the Fairy Glen allowed us to see the Fairy King's Castle, the largest mound in the area. All of these mounds are like perfect domes in the land, with strange ring patterns in the grasses that grow on them. As Ross tells it, these are where the fairies live, and they are not the Tinkerbell types that you may think. They are little magical people, about 5'2" (wait, am I a fairy?), and they lure humans into their underground homes with music and drink. One night spent in the fairy realm, however, is 100 human years, so when the human returns home, they find it quite changed. I don't know, this sounded like a perfectly enjoyable form of time travel if you ask me, so I wasn't so cautious about climbing up on the fairy mounds myself. I also left a coin, which brings good luck, as opposed to taking a pebble, which brings bad luck, as does not believing in the fairies.

     

Once we left, out of earshot of the fairies, Ross explained what he felt could be a plausible explanation for the very real fairy people. In the time of the Picts, there were races of hidden people who lived underground that occasionally had to switch out their own sickly babies for healthy children of townspeople in order to diversify their inbred population. These were the fairy changelings of myth. It wouldn't seem strange to me for these hills to hold secret worlds, on this plane or another. As for our day there, the sheep seemed to be our only other companions, munching happily in peace.

Dunvegan Castle continued our exploration into the fairy world as it is the owner of the Fairy Flag. The version that we heard was that a fairy princess would sing beneath the fairy bridge every day, and every day the local chieftain would come to listen. They soon fell in love, and the princess pleaded with the Fairy King to let her marry the man and live in the human world. He granted this wish, but only for a year and a day. Once time was up, she had to return to the world of the fairies. So the two were married, and she bore a son, and soon enough the year and a day had come to an end. Sadly, the fairy princess wrapped the baby in the silk that would come to be known as the fairy flag, promising that it would keep the baby and the clan safe, and it would deliver them victory if they flew the flag in battle. She returned to the fairy world, and the clan claimed victories under the fairy flag, and to this day it hangs, tattered under glass in Dunvegan Castle. The rest of the castle is dedicated to the specific history of the Clan MacLeod, but its gardens were more interesting to me. 

There was the Round Garden, the Water Garden, the Walled Garden, and Woodland Path. Each one felt like something out of the Secret Garden, and as always, I only wish we'd had more time to take it all in. For now, revisiting the pictures must do.

          

          

We ended our evening in Portree, waiting for our reservation and trying to escape the rain in a local pub. We were immediately adopted by a retired art teacher who used his broken umbrella like a puppet saying "Hello!" and prodded at his phone in an attempt to show me his artwork. "Do you have a website?" I asked, seeing our reservation time clicking upon us. "Yes!" he said. He then gave me his email address. Dinner at the Granary was delicious. I had a warming sweet potato soup and goat cheese on beet and crostini appetizer. Alex had very tender lamb. Our Canadian dinner companions had a sampling of appetizers and a bottle of white wine and everyone was happy and full. 

Honeymoon Roundup - Glen Coe and the Silver Sands Beach

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.

Honeymoon Roundup - Mull, Staffa, and Iona

We woke up early on this day for a 6:30am departure dictated by the ferry schedule. Luckily, our bodies were confused into submission by the time change as it was, so we felt pretty bright-eyed all things considered. Everyone loaded onto the bus, unloaded at the ferry station, loaded onto the ferry to Mull, re-loaded onto the bus (which had also taken the ferry), drove across Mull, and took another variety of ferries to Staffa and Iona (plus did it all again backwards).

Since we were basically using the island of Mull as a thoroughfare, the main highlight was seeing some hairy coos! We interrupted some of their PG-13 behavior, certainly not the subject of a picturesque Scottish calendar, but it did make us all laugh across the cultures.


These cows are a traditional highland breed that have very little fat, and so the famous hair is what keeps them warm. They didn't particularly enjoy this convoy of paparazzi, so after the herd sauntered away, we pressed on. This brought us to the port at Mull, where one might catch a ferry to Iona or Staffa. The latter was billed as an optional boat trip for this tour without much fanfare. However, once I heard that the tiny island housed puffins this time of year, I was sold. I always thought of puffins as a very exotic type of bird, and now I'd get to frolic among them! We bypassed the commercial ferry and hopped on the Staffa Tours wooden boat a few minutes later. For the next 45 minutes, we peppered the crew with questions about island history, they pointed out different bird species that zipped along the waters, we slowly floated past a sunbathing seal (looking confused by his sudden stardom), and chased a pod of jumping dolphins.

As we approached Staffa, we learned about how its unique hexagonal column rocks were created under pressure and how they break off at varying points. The whole base of the island is built on this highly textured form until the top gives way to soft green grasses and tiny wildflowers. It is a sight to behold.









On one end of the island is what it is most famous for - Fingal's Cave. This cave does not have the traditional stalactites and stalagmites of my childhood field trips, but rather is made out of the same hexagonal columns, which allow for an undulating perched walkway along the sides and above where the water enters. It is a geological wonder.



After climbing a narrow and very steep set of stairs, we arrived at the island's surface, with gently rolling hills and a well-worn dirt path that led to the other end of the island.
It was blessedly wild, free from any buildings that I could see.

 It was completely invigorating to be up there, feeling the sea breeze, and though it was a tiny spot far from everything, there was no loneliness. We took the path quickly, in a hurry to see the puffins that had been flying to feed their babies as we approached the island. Here is a fun fact about puffins:
they love humans! Seagulls attack the puffins, and so when the humans come and chase the seagulls away, the puffins know that it is safe to come and tend to their chicks on land. As I approached the cliff edge of the island, there were multitudes of puffins coming and going to fish and feed, or simply standing around seeming to socialize. They occasionally toddled up with flappy feet to one of the nearby photographers to take a curious closer look. It was a moment of effortless, peaceful joy.
 

 

As we left the island to set off for Iona, a sailboat made for a picturesque goodbye. The ride back was a bit less exciting, but I did get a chance to ask the captain about some family history questions I had. Since Iona is said to be where my ancestors are buried, I asked what he knew about King Kenneth and his clan. It was too long ago for him to know much about what became of the family, but he had some guesses as to where they may have lived. Unfortunately we weren't going in the direction of that castle, but it was fun to sleuth.



Iona herself welcomed us with turquoise crystal waters and bright white cottages.

    

This island houses the history of Christianity in Scotland, evident in its nunnery, abbey, and profusion of Celtic crosses. While its populace makes Iona less tranquil than wild Staffa, the whole feeling of the place was joyful.
Maybe it was because the sun was shining, or maybe it was anticipation of being where my ancestors lay, but I just felt happy to be there. There are about two main roads on Iona that run parallel to each other, and two smaller ones that connect them. It's safe to say that even if you took a wrong turn, you'd end up where you started. From the ferry port, you come upon the nunnery first. Its remaining walls are made of gray and pinkish stone, and though it's lacking in many amenities at this point in its life, it maintains a central courtyard with flowers and a stone bench.
Continue past the nunnery, make a right, and you'll soon be on the path to the Abbey, passing Celtic crosses and wildflowers along the way.

 
Before reaching the Abbey is the walled graveyard. Many old gravestones grow moss here and mark their occupants with varying degrees of legibility. Several years prior to this trip to Scotland, my mother had spent countless hours researching one of her specific branches on the family tree. This branch led its way back to 810 A.D. (or C.E. if you're fancy) and King Kenneth MacAlpin, my 38th great-grandfather. The story of King Kenneth is one that is part fact, part myth, and part lost to history. Though the means by which he accomplished this are debated, it is generally agreed that Kenneth united the conflicting tribes and became the first king of Scots. His line created a number of royal members who solidified this union between the Picts and Gaels, and even Queen Elizabeth II is descended from him. My journey to Iona, then, was one to our beginnings. In an hour's time, I wanted to find out what I could about the kings and their historical burial place on Iona. One of the staff told me that the big grassy mound in the graveyard was thought to be where many of the kings were buried. It is at the top of the graveyard, and the rest of the land slopes gently downward, looking out to sea. What a spectacular gift to reach this place.

The Abbey has been well-kept, and the sanctuary within was still in use. While we were there, they announced a service being held for world peace. It was a lovely, tranquil place, with a columns bordering an internal courtyard, open to the rain while we walked the perimeter. I had taken the device for the audio tour but didn't wind up listening to any of it. All I wanted to do was feel as much of the place as possible, and try to capture it in pictures.