Finding my Moment in Scotland
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The drive from Edinburgh to Isle of Skye filled my mind with shadowy images of fairy tales long forgotten. A reverie that broke, as I mentioned last post, when we swung around a corner to find a mountain. Just…plopped. Plopped onto an improbable color palette in a way that the mountain looked tilt shifted, extra looming, four-dimensional.
I shook my head at as the scenery changed again. How could a place look this slapdash? As if some long ago primal force said, “What if we put a river….uh…here!” And spontaneously it appeared. “Looks weird, but whatever. How about a forest…here!”
I could practically picture elements of landscape falling from some unseen bag of topographical details in a spontaneous, even chaotic way.
Perhaps the Highlands as a whole are that way, but Skye is simply bananas. We turned left, deeper into Skye where the sky suddenly cleared and a black mountain, creased like origami, gushed with a waterfall, and I revised my previous assessment.
Skye is not just bananas, it is unhinged.
Shockingly blue skies held and once we checked into our Airbnb in Carbost we flew down the lane to the Old Inn, a fabulous whitewashed pub, ramshackley with its tacked on rooms and cacophony of seating. We couldn’t find a table so grabbed one outside, loch side. Which worked while we sipped our cask ale and drank in the view, but sunset is a hitch after 8, so we cheered when an indoor table opened up.
Our Airbnb host had suggested we arrive at Old Inn by 6, since the pub only accepts reservations for people staying at their attached inn, but we found out from the bartender that the pub had been packed for four solid months. I shudder to imagine high season. If you are visiting in the area, you may want to consider staying at the Old Inn purely for the benefit of being able to reserve a table at what their t-shirts cheekily boast is “Probably the best pub in Carbost.” It’s cheeky because a Monopoly board has more buildings than Carbost. The Old Inn is the only pub in about a half hour radius. Since it was practically our only dining option in the area, we felt so lucky that the food was a non-stop revelation.
From cullen skink (a Scottish soup with smoked haddock, potatoes, and cream) to some of the finest fish and chips we’ve had ever, to mussels from the Isle of Lewis (part of the Outer Hebrides, the archipelago just to the west of us), to haggis dumplings (Gabe ordered these the first night, after falling for Julia’s haggis roll earlier that day), to sticky toffee pudding, everything was top notch. So good we found reasons to pop in just about everyday—getting to know the waitstaff, who never lost their cheer, despite the non-stop slam of people. Not only that, they never seemed to resent our ordering another ale, another whiskey, as we lingered, learning to spot regulars like the man we dubbed “the pirate” who called his friend “longshanks”, and getting surprised by spontaneous traditional music on a Wednesday (Old Inn has regular music every Thursday, you can catch my video of the off-label, awesome music below).
On the walk “home” that evening, we noted the little grocery store, wondering how much it could hold given it couldn’t be much larger than a standard garden shed. Just past that stood a little building with a sign reading, “Bread Lab", which, according to the sign, baked up sourdough and einkorn bread (the oldest kind of wheat) for sale on Thursdays. I made a mental note to order a loaf or two before the Wednesday noon deadline.
I gave one last look over the gleaming loch, reflecting back the sweetness of the starry night, and wondered how long our good-weather luck could hold.
Turns out, not very long.
hiking isle on skye, Day One
When I woke the next morning I sighed at the heaving wind and rain. It is unclear, even to myself, if I sighed in despair or in joy—I do love rainy days. Then again, I didn’t want the rain to stymy our ability to get out into the Highlands of it all.
Lucky for me, after a staying breakfast of porridge oats I found in the cupboard, my traveling companions were more than ready to zip up their raincoats, lace up their boots, and brave the rain.
Now, a note about gear. My family did a lot of eye rolling about the specificity of my packing requirements. But after this first day of hiking to a tidal island, across a rocky causeway, Nicolas admitted I was right. Seeing as this is an extremely rare remark to hear from any of my children, I first determined to make sure I write this one down for the parenting annals, and second to tell you what we packed so you can be similarly pleased with your apparel. After all, as my Swedish friends tell me, there’s no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothing.
What to pack for all-weather walking on the Isle of Skye
Boots: this is essential and a non-negotiable. No, you cannot get away with wearing your sneakers. The land is essentially a sponge. Water comes up in places you would not expect and therefore you’ll be above your ankles in mud many times, no matter how careful you are. You want at least half-height boots and you want them waterproof. On our trip, we brought boots from the following makers:
Merrill: (Keith) Fabric and leather, these were the least waterproof, but Keith insists that they were so breathable, his feet dried out quickly. Honestly, I don’t buy it, it sounds awful, so I wouldn’t get them, but he loves them so much he’s STILL WEARING THEM. They are that comfortable. They are not, it must be said, on the fashion-forward side, so we all gave his shoes demerits, but my husband is a contrary fellow, so our derision made him love his Merrills all the more. Full disclosure: Keith is a Merrill enthusiast, he wears the street version all the time, so he’s not only grown used to their clunky charm, he’s also grown used to our collective mocking. Your loved ones may not leave you so lucky.
Teva (mine): Also, fabric and leather. I loved loved loved my shoes. Though Keith said his Merrills weren’t waterproof because of the fabric, mine were fabric and the only time my socks got wet was when my foot sank so deeply into the spongey ground that water came rushing in over the top. They are also, it must be said, pretty cute! And very comfortable. In fact, Keith and I wore our hiking boots our second day in London because we found them so much more comfortable than our walking shoes! By the last few days, putting on my boots felt like slipping into a foot hug. I now nurture an irrational love for my boots, seeing them as a conduit to some incredible hiking.
Kodiak (Nicolas): Also, fabric and leather. Nicolas gave his boots high marks for breathability, waterproof-ness, comfort, and flexibility. He had considered getting Merrills like his father, but when he saw them, thought, “Oh. No. I simply cannot put those on my feet.” The Kodiaks weren’t that much more expensive and he felt worth it for a shoe he’d feel went with his look. In that he has a look.
Oboz (Gabe): all leather. They didn’t seem as flexible as the ones that were also made of fabric, but that kid scrambled up slopes I’d hesitate to attempt in athletic ballet shoes. So he clearly didn’t feel the bulk or stiffness. He reports they were perfectly waterproof, comfortable, and nimble. I know from talking to the salesman that this brand of shoe is known for the solid arch, which takes the weight off the balls of your feet, allowing you to walk for longer in comfort. They look like your classic hiking boot, rugged and outdoorsy, if that’s your fashion jam.
For the record, I’m not writing about Julia’s shoes because she was the only one of us who didn’t have to purchase them for the trip! She’d had hers for longer than she could remember and given how much production changes over time, I hesitate to offer praise or criticism of a brand that could be making wildly different boots now.
Now for the clothing—
Layers, layers, layers! No matter what season you are in. We were lucky enough to get a few days of sunshine, but I’ve heard from people who went to Skye for a week in the summer and got not one day of sun. Those layers should include:
A rain coat. No, the outer shell of your ski parka will not work. Those are water resistant, you need something that is water PROOF. Something that will stand up to slashing rain and not let one drop in.
Warm layer. One that fits under your raincoat when it is not just rainy but also cold, or that you can wear alone if it’s just cold. I wore this fluffy Patagonia coat, and I felt in a Teddy bear’s embrace. Sooooo cozy, which is just want you need to ward off those cool breezes.
A vest. To add under the warm layer and rain coat for particularly ghastly days, or to swap with the warm layer when you need a spot more warmth than the rain coat alone, but not the full warm layer. Gabe and I had ones from Patagonia that we loved. Streamlined but really warm. It made me think of that old adage that if your trunk is warm, you extremities will be warmer. No idea if that’s true, but that vest kept me far toastier than I expected.
Gloves. Wet hands = cold hands. Get ones that you can operate your phone with. You don’t want to miss photos while you are tugging off your gloves with your teeth because your digits are too frozen to be of service. I learned this the hard way.
A hat: Those of us with fleece or tight-knit hats were happier than those of us with pom poms that are hard to fit under a rain coat hood. I also learned this the hard way.
A scarf: I had a light one I could wind around my neck more or less depending on the chill. Real cold might demand a more woolen or fleecy scarf, but I did well with my pretty, silky one. It was also nice to have a discrete way to wipe my nose (tissues would have been a quick mess), though the less said about this the better.
Pants: I wore Athleta leggings every day and I loved it. Everyone expressed shock that I was dry enough on the rainy walk, and I had no idea how that happened, given that Nicolas and Julia in their actual hiking pants were wet through. Once at the Bog Myrtle restaurant, sipping my tea and digging into my venison stew, I realized the pants were quite wet. But my body heat acted on the moisture so I didn’t even notice. Until I got out of the rain and realized how very soggy I was. Nevertheless, I found them perfect. Athleta leggings have great pockets, super handy.
Hiking socks. Imperative with those boots, both for ultimate comfort and keeping your toes dry and toasty.
all Amazon link are associates link, if you buy a book via the link, I’ll get a few pennies, but it doesn’t change your cost
A collection of long-sleeve shirts. The kind that work on the trail, but look nice when you take off the layers at a restaurant. Nicolas commented that I looked quite put together with my colors and I’m not sure if my doing that on purpose would say something good or bad about me, so I will only smile without comment.
Also pack— “Isle of Skye: 40 Coast and Country Walks”! We found a copy in our Airbnb and what a lucky thing! The book is fabulous for discovering all kinds of different walking trails on Skye, as there are more than you’ll find on line and better curated. It includes the popularity of the different walks, which allowed us to avoid the Old Man of Storr (most popular walk on Skye).
Now, let’s talk about that hiking, as it’s how we organized our days. The magical thing about Skye is the incredible variation of terrain and landscape, echoed by the variation in the weather. So no two hikes could ever be the same.
For the record I’m not going to tell you how to access any of these hikes, lest I start fielding angry emails from readers that I’ve led astray. Buy the book I recommended, it’s in British English so the conventions around directions-giving may be a bit puzzling for Americans, but stick with it and you’ll figure it out.
(Back to) Day One: The Tidal Island of Oronsay.
Oronsay is connected to the Isle of Skye by a rocky causeway at low tide. At high tide, you’d need a boat, as the water washes over the path. I have a deep seated fear of bridges that translates into a frisson of thrill when I’m on land with water on both sides. So I shivered with excitement as we first caught a glimpse of the green island on the other end of the strip of stones.
Noting the tide schedule, we set out, intent on making sure we were back on dry (ha!) land before high tides covered the causeway. Scotland is awesome in that you can walk anywhere. No gate is a barrier, as long as you leave it as you find it. So we walked through several pastures before descending to the rocky causeway.
My kids love a tidepool, so a causeway that should take about two minutes to cross took more like forty. I should add that I couldn’t do the walk in two minutes even if I wasn’t called over to check out a cool piece of seaweed because the footing was uneven, shifting, and slippery, which forced me to pay careful attention to where I placed my feet.
Like driving in Scotland (read my post for tips!), this proved to be an exercise in mindfulness, as I could not let my attention wander or flag. One rock…balance…next rock.
Perhaps this sounds tedious, but it became a soothing rhythm, like breath, and resonated through me with a kind of profound calm.
Calm, that is, until we scrambled up onto Oronsay and the winds beat us back. Unlike the buff colored fields we’d left behind, the island shone emerald green. But not the rolling kind of green you might imagine in some bucolic place like Ireland, rather, the earth looked like it had been frozen mid-boil. Strange dips and swoops in the landscape created an almost alien terrain, surrounded by the unapologetic pounding of the sea.
It was uncomfortable and crazy and wet and cold and I loved every dang second of it. This turned out to be our most weather-beaten hike, and my favorite, while everybody else preferred our last day, under an expanse of impossible blue. I guess I am just a sucker for moody skies, which is probably an asset when traveling to Scotland.
Slideshow of Oronsay Island
We had lunch at the Bog Myrtle Cafe, which seems like it may have vintage/crafts for sale during the on season, but was newly reopened when we were there.
They said it would be a bit, so we ordered a few scones and tea to get us started. Gabe ordered hot chocolate “with treats”—whipped cream and marshmallows. Oh, the warm tea was lovely. I could practically see my clothes steaming as they dried on my body. Then came that venison stew I mentioned earlier, savory and warming and utter perfection.
Once home we popped into the little grocery store which had all manner of goods, despite the diminutive size. We stocked the house with sausage and eggs and snacks, firewood, and, of course, Scotch.
I spent pausa (Italian habits die hard; or more, precisely, do not die at all) drawing the plants in the yard. After the week I spent drawing and painting in the Pyrenees, setting a plant or flower next to me while I uncap my pen has taken on its own meditative quality that deepened the contentment of being dry and warm after being doused with rain all morning.
We got a bit fancier for dinner at the Three Chimneys in Dunvegan. In the Scottish highlands, apparently, fancy means swapping out your hiking boots for something less muddy. Like seemingly everything on Skye, it was a half hour from our little home in Carbost, or really a bit longer what with all the stopping for sheep.
The Three Chimneys is a high end restaurant that at one time sold only whiskey and marmalade and now serves things with froth and gelee. The food was really good (especially the housemade bread with smoked heather butter and the seaweed butter, as well as the oysters served with a sloe gin granita), but the price tag is steep. Especially for someone like me, who favors rustic, homey food more than highly articulated food. Don’t get me wrong, I do enjoy a fancy meal (which reminds me, I have yet to write up my post on Bilbao, make sure you are signed up for my newsletter so you’ll get that in your mailbox when it drops! Plus, you’ll get a copy of my novel, Santa Lucia!), but I need it to be more than fancy for fancy sake.
On the moonlit drive home, I noticed how easily Keith had begun taking the turns. Almost as if driving on the left side of the road had become as commonplace as sheep gathered in the meadows.
Day Two: Portree
The day dawned misty enough to imagine that rain hung low on the horizon, so over our morning coffee, Keith and I decided that after a breakfast of eggs, sausage, toast, and beans, we’d head to Portree.
Portree is Skye’s main city, such as it is. Despite the spareness of Skye, I somehow still envisioned it as a rather bustling mini-metropolis. We decided to check it out, and if the weather held, we’d go for a hike, and if not, we could seek out a store for wool and/or woolen goods as we wanted to see where all these sheep’s goods wound up!
Gabe on a rock
Portree is, it turns out, tiny. Compared to nothing would it be called a booming metropolis, but it is indeed the biggest town we visited. It’s charming, with shop windows and a lively square and a colorful row of shops along the water. A quick stop for coffee and we were off along the long arm of Portree’s harbor.
We hoped to find the seals that often frequent the rocks along the path, but alas, they must have been fishing elsewhere. What we found instead were gorgeous views— I’ll include a slideshow of them below. The walk took us through a birch forest, and while I considered myself a “non-forest girl”, I had to reprise the refrain. A birch forest is something apart, with those reedy white trunks adorned with knowing eyes, and spaces between the trees, a perfect path for scampering fairies. Throw in a mossy, rock wall alongside a chattering creek, and it’s the kind of forest this non-forest girl can get behind.
Portree Hike Slideshow
After our walk, we darted into a grocery store to pick up provisions for a car lunch. We had wanted to lunch in Portree, but either miscalculated the time, or our walk included so many diversions we dallied longer than the estimated hike time. Time loses meaning in a place like Skye. Which is funny because the moments spin more profoundly. Huh.
sheep shennanigans
In any case, we bought packaged sammies—pretty good (especially the Coronation chicken ones) though lacking in salt, which is easily remedied with the introduction of crisps between the bread and filling. To perk up our car picnic, we had Hobnobs (oaty biscuits with chocolate on one side— we pick them up whenever see them in the States) and cans of Irn-Bru, Scotland’s national soft drink (it regularly outsells Coca Cola), which some claim taste like orange cream soda, but I thought tasted more like fizzy Hubba Bubba.
We pulled into Talisker distillery just in time for our scheduled tour. Talisker is just down the road from the Old Inn in Carbost, a town I found myself falling in love with, not only for its pub, little shop, distillery, coffee house, and oyster shed (more on these last two later), but for its position on the loch. Let me hasten to add that Skye is full of beauties, I’m by no means recommending you stay in Carbost… on the contrary I think the trick to being a good traveler is loving wherever you land.
Now to Scotch whiskey. I’ll be honest, I’m not historically into whiskey, Scottish or otherwise, but that first taste of Dalmore in Edinburgh changed my mind. I wanted to understand the complex flavor of Scotch and had been looking forward to the tour to learn more.
Learn I did, it was one of the best “drinks” tours I’ve done (the other was in Rioja, second reminder to get that Bilbao post written!). The parts I found the most interesting were that the barley used in Scotch is “malted”, which means germinating the barley just to the point of sprouting and then drying it (sometimes over peat fires, like at Tallsker, and sometimes just with heat) to access all available sugars in the grains. This explained both the caramel and smoke notes I caught in the Scotch whiskies I’d had since our arrival.
The grain then gets covered with beautiful Isle of Skye spring water, which I think, along with the peat smoke, is responsible for the luscious flavor profile.
Because that water is terrific! Gabe had just that morning remarked on its deliciousness, which made me remember a passage in Red Sauce, Brown Sauce about a Highland porridge competition where contestants come from all over to claim the prize of best porridge, classic or creative. According to Felicity Cloake—the book’s author, who biked around the UK researching the elements of a Full English Breakfast—one of the competition organizers said that some people bring their own water to the competition, which causes no end of amusement to the organizers whose attitude is something akin to, (and I’m paraphrasing), “I mean, this is Highland water, but if you want to bring inferior water, you do you.”
As Italian cooking has taught me, great food can be simple because the magic is in quality ingredients. A pasta with nothing but newly pressed olive oil and garlic and sea salt transcends everything you might know about pasta.
I never thought of it before, but now realize the same rules would apply to spirits. Take excellent Scottish barley, grown where the soil and rain conditions produce high-quality grains, with their large size and thus accessible starches, suitable for whiskey’s malting process.
Heat with peat-fires that add that subtle flavor. Then bring on that pristine spring water for mashing and fermenting.
Very few ingredients, but top notch ones, which leads to a stunning product.
The tour ended in the tasting room, where we tried three different Talisker whiskeys, both with and without drops of water. Such an education!
Also, I should mention that Talisker has two features we didn’t get to enjoy—one is a “Made by the Sea” tasting experience that our waiter at the Three Chimneys told us about, where light, media, music, sensory moments, and special effects combine to create a real savoring of Talker whiskey. Also, they’ve built what is either a tasting room or restaurant right on the loch. It’s gorgeous, but not yet open when we were there.
After the tour, we stopped at Caora Dhubh Coffee Company in Carbost, a friendly and funky coffee stand (no indoor seating) that uses beans roasted in Edinburgh. Fabulous, and a fun way to cap off our tasting tour of Carbost.
Only we weren’t really capping it off, since we had dinner at Old Inn Pub. This time we went earlier, but still needed to wait for a table. As it turns out, with cask ale, a wait is no bother at all.
With every room full and laughter and hubbub all around, it kinda felt like winning the lottery to get a table and a cheerful waitress asking what she could bring us. Oh, we wanted all the things! This is when I had the cullen skink I mentioned earlier, a fabulous Scottish soup with smoked haddock and potatoes and cream. I loved my Isle of Lewis mussels, but couldn’t get off the cullen skink with warm bread. Why don’t we eat haddock in the US? It’s so great in fish and chips, smoked in soup, or topped with cheese, like Nicolas got at the Jaggy Thistle.
Live traditional music started, prompting us to order dessert to stretch the evening. Several desserts sounded good, but how could we turn down sticky toffee pudding? Especially with excellent traditional music and smoky Scotch whiskey.
traditional music at the Old Inn, Carbost, Isle of Skye
We stepped out of the pub, lit against the darkness gathering over the loch.
I felt my footsteps slow, reluctant to end the short walk through the cool air, rinsed by moonlight. A light ahead flickered, beckoned…and I realized, the Bread Lab, where I’d luckily remembered to order from just that morning (a job made more complicated by the fact that the woman was out walking her dog, the wind twining with her delicate brogue).
I understood enough to put in a request for a loaf of sourdough, but wasn’t able to order a fruit bread (which I guessed must be the same as the einkorn bread) because she had no more reservations available. The small frisson of disappointment not getting to try it evaporated at the sight of the the fires within the Bread Lab blazing until the little hut glowed, pushing back the darkness. I loved the idea that the fires were already going to cook tomorrow’s bread.
As we approached the house, I realized I heard another sound—a creek I hadn’t even known lay at the foot of our driveway, hidden in the trees. It took the stillness of evening to frame the chattering water, the birds singing among the trees as if summoning the sunrise.
Have I mentioned that Scotland is magic?
Day 3: Fairy Pools and Talisker Peninsula
As the first day of quasi clear skies, we headed to the Fairy Pools. This is a very popular Isle of Skye destination, with people descending to the area from all over the Highlands and beyond just for this hike. So Keith and I got up early to head to the community shop to gather supplies for a hearty breakfast.
My eyes lingered on the refrigerated section, catching on the meats and cheeses. Something seemed familiar, but I couldn’t click on what it was. Finally, it occurred to me—Lorne sausage! I’d learned in Red Sauce, Brown Sauce that the Scots don’t favor pork products, so their sausage is made of beef. It comes in squares that resemble Wendy’s hamburgers. I snagged a pack and decided to cook it alongside Scottish oats with dates and brown sugar (because really, shouldn’t everything taste like sticky toffee pudding?)
By the time the kids woke up to their blaring alarms, I had breakfast ready. Those Lorne sausages were a treat! I figured they’d just taste like burgers, but with the breadcrumbs, coriander, nutmeg, and mace, they were more akin to an off-beat traditional sausage. I know I can’t buy them in the US, but since they don’t have a casing, they look like something I could make at home.
Dishes washed and hiking boots on, we left for the Fairy Pools. Our host had advised us to arrive by 9, and I’m glad we did. The lot was empty, but when we left around noon, it was overfull.
Unlike our previous walks, this one seemed designed for masses, with even ground and look-out points over the pools. Within the first few minutes we saw more walkers than we had in our previous two walks combined. It’s justified, these pools are spectacular, but we realized how much we enjoyed having trails to ourselves. Though it was all worth it for the guy hiking in a kilt.
And, of course, those fairy pools.
Somehow, even though it’s baked into the name, I expected to be astonished by the falls, but didn’t anticipate the magic of the pools under the falls. They glowed, jewels lit under a brooding sky.
As for the falls themselves, there’s a reason they’re a tourist draw. They’re… well… I like to think I have a heavy battalion of words in my arsenal, but they fail me. Instead, I’ll have to show you…
Fairy Pools Slideshow
Now, most travelers walk up the falls and then back down. But we are people who prefer a circuit. So at the source of the falls, at the foot of the Black Cuillin mountain range, we “turned left at the cairn”. That was the literal direction in the book, “turn left at the cairn”. We did and then swiftly proceeded to lose the trail all together.
Honestly, I’m not 100% sure there was a trail, but we kept the incline on our right, and stayed pitched in the direction of the entrance to the trail (on Isle of Skye, you can see forever into the distance, since the landscape is so scrubbed). Eventually, a couple walking their dog passed us, which at least let us know we couldn’t be far off.
This was the part of the Isle of Skye trip that we realized that the island is essentially a sponge—soaking up water from the sea below and the prodigious rain above. Our feet regularly sank to mid-calf. Like crossing the causeway, these were the moments to call on my mindfulness training. Watching each step, rather than panicking about how many hidden water bogs waited beneath the ground cover, stretching out between us and the end of the path.
This was also the part of the walk where the sun, after hours of tangling with the clouds, broke free.
The sun on our faces, I hardly noticed when I finally took a fall onto the rocky creek, or maybe it was the path, they were so intertwined, it was hard to tell. Wet feet and all, we arrived at the parking lot, exhilarated. We piled into the car and headed to the Oyster Shed, in Carbost. We ordered oyster and crabs and chips and smoked salmon and gratefully plopped onto a bench to feast. Almost nothing tastes better than seafood and chips (fries to you Yanks; yes, that includes me, but when in Rome…) after a morning spent tromping all over the countryside.
After lunch, we ducked into the Bread Lab, which will henceforth be known as plain heaven. Imagine, rows of fire-kissed sourdough all lined up, each covered with a clean, linen cloth. Jars of homemade jam on the counter. And the nicest lady possible smiling to greet you. As a bonus, that smile didn’t even falter when we realized she only took cash and we’d been living a cashless existence. She shrugged it off, said we wouldn’t be able to get cash at the Carbost Post Office (so many questions, no time to ask), but we could go to Portree where there was an ATM sometime. Okay, but how would we pay her? The woman brushed a stray wisp of hair behind her ear and shrugged. The door is open, just leave it on the counter.
And with that, we walked off with a still-warm loaf of sourdough.
Shocking as this may be too imagine, within a couple of hours, Keith and I were itching to head out for another walk. The sunlight was just too tempting. The “kids” (at which point do we no longer refer to them as kids?) opted to stay behind and so probably missed the best walk of the trip (don’t tell them, better that they don’t know). We drove across the peninsula to a walk that led to the open sea. The drive itself felt like something out of time—all crazy landscape, carpeted in green, like a furry emerald dragon. Dotted with meandering sheep.
There were only a handful of parking spots, and I once again thanked our lucky stars that we’d come off-season. From the lot, we walked toward a farm with a wild collection of animals. We then skirted around a farmhouse and found ourselves on a valley path with the sun glinting off the sea ahead. We greeted each sheep we found with a hearty wave, which they resolutely ignored. Sheep, despite all the idioms to the contrary, seem to not be into following social norms.
We arrived at the sea’s edge, the grass turning to pebbles turning to gently rustling water. To our left, the arm of cliffs ended in dramatic rocky outcroppings, to our right, a waterfall tumbled down to the sea. We laughed aloud, caught off guard by the sheer and ridiculous beauty of this place. Then we turned around and the laughter faded before doubling back.
A rainbow, stretching from cliff to cliff, framing the very valley we’d just walked.
Scotland.
Stop.
Just…slow your roll. This is all too much.
As the rainbow faded, it left a lingering patina of colors over everything—the sheep, the clouds framing the jutting top of a mountain, our faces, tipped up to drink it all in.
We arrived home, beaming, to find Nicolas whipping up a whiskey soup. He’d found the recipe in a cookbook on the windowsill and thought it would work well with the sourdough.
While he stood over his soup and Julia made a salad, I read a book of Scottish fairy tales. And tried to not remember that tomorrow would be our last day on Skye.
Day Five: Brother’s Point
We’d planned on hiking to Old Man of Storr–if you do a quick Google search, you’ll see why. It’s the quintessential image of Skye, with those pinnacles of rock jutting out like needles from a frothing green hill. But we decided we wanted something less flooded with tourists, so we decided to head north, past the Old Man to the upper right peninsula of Skye. It’s really astonishing how little ground we’ve covered in our visit here. I don’t know how people come for just a day trip!
This day glowed from sun up to sun down, a gleaming, miraculous blue of a day. Like, “what did we do in this life or any other to deserve this kind of undulating sunshine?” My family ate it up, and I loved it, of course, but still have a special place in my heart reserved for thorny skies.
The parking lot was just a little turn-out and we luckily snagged the last of the handful of spots. We crossed the road, and opened the gate to a farm, nodding to the daffodils, who nodded back.
For some reason, years ago our family started calling daffodils “asphodel, that greeny flower”, from the poem by William Carlos Williams. We say the whole phrase, as in, “Check to that huge patch of asphodel, that greeny flower!” It’s silly, but it’s made me irrationally fond of those buttery-hued trumpets.
Anyway, another gate or two and we rounded the bend to a sweep of the sea. Since the kids weren’t with us the rainbow day, this was their first taste of open water. They could barely tolerate our tromping around an ancient settlement on the left of our path, akin to an old bothy, before they practically tumbled down the hill to get to the water.
We could see Brother’s Point ahead, and I itched to go there, but the kids, reverting to deserving the moniker, would not be hurried. This is Scotland, I reminded myself, why rush it? Let’s all discover her charms in our own way. So I climbed a rocky outcropping (with a generous brush of grass on the top, perfect for sitting a spell) and enjoyed the view of the rustling waves and orange-beaked oyster-catchers bobbing near the rocks. And a seal! I didn’t know what it was at first and caught myself wondering if I’d finally caught sight of Nessie, or, more probably (if any of it is probable) Nessie’s tiny, silky descendent.
Most mesmerizing to the kids were the tide pools (yes, again). These were tide pools like I’ve never seen—sudden chasms in the stone, reaching deep, with water (more akin to glass) allowing unparalleled views of swaying seaweed, darting fish, and tomato-like anemones. Whole worlds in a space the length and depth of a bathtub. I was so grateful for their discovery, their pursuit of adventure, that brought those tide pools to our awareness.
Eventually, the kids tore their attention away from the water for the lure of scrambling up the hillside. And I do mean scrambling. Paths, apparently, are boring, and hillsides must be scaled. This path slipped away to our left quite precipitously. This is not a walk for the unsteady of foot or courage.
We watched as sheep on the point ahead seemed to disappear into Dùn Hasan, the odd lump half way along the peninsula, only to pop out the top like silly jacks-in-the-box. Only to fling themselves down the other side. I had no idea what this meant for what it would take to navigate Brother’s Point—was there a tunnel? A spring loaded mechanism? An internal spiral staircase?
Turns out my final guess was the most accurate. One slips under the shell of the rocky outcropping and then pulls, hand over hand, twisting to find purchase until springing out the top of the “staircase”. A spare 20 paces across, one descends by a more straightforward kind of path to the point of Brother’s Point, a steppe-like meadow that juts out into the water.
We shared our moment of revelation with a pack of sheep, that, despite all pleas to be friends, tossed their heads in contempt. They did not care for us and lacked the manners to hide it. I thrilled when, by walking slowly and without eye contact, they allowed me to approach. A little.
Everyone scattered over the meadow, many sitting on the edge of the point, legs dangling over the water. I closed my eyes to avoid the toxic imagery of a loved one plummeting. A breeze gentled across my cheek and the tension vanished. I settled down, above the rest of the family, Old Man of Storr behind me (along with the sheep) and closed my eyes again, this time as a decision, not a reaction to fearful imagery.
It occurred to me that in my mindfulness course (which I recommend, by the way, Palouse Mindfulness—it’s free and self-directed and has deepened my life), all the modes of meditation consistently recalled wandering thoughts to some central focus. Usually breath, but in yoga it was the body and in walking meditation it was to the sensation of footfalls and in loving kindness mediation it was in holding space for loving others. Wouldn’t anything work, any way of recalling wandering thoughts to allow for deeper focus?
The wind.
I love the wind, always have. I love its ability to soothe and invigorate, I love imagining how far it’s traveled, I love inhaling the perfume of that journey.
So I tipped my face towards the sun and focused on the wind. Every time my mind wandered, I brought it back to the feel of my hair tickling my cheek, the brush of the breeze across my neck, the feel of my shirt rising and falling against my skin with the wind’s exhale, the play of warmth and cool over my face.
When my eyes opened at the call of my family once again scrambling up the hill, I smiled. Everything in this moment felt like a present, gift-wrapped in sunlight and delivered from the divine. My aperture seemed wider, taking in more of the horizon, more green, more blue. More Isle of Skye.
I floated, more than walked, back along Brother’s Point, marveling at the story of the monks who once made it their home (hence the name). The history is unclear about if the monks arrived by an accident of a shipwreck, or a decision to live a life of solitude on this spare stretch of land.
Suddenly it felt like a worthy lifestyle-choice.
Instead of settling ourselves, we made our way back along the path, looking for dinosaur footprints on the rocky shelf that led to the sea. I thought I saw some, but honestly, it’s hard to tell. If you go, definitely look at some images ahead of time so you know what you’re looking for.
We then passed the remains of an ancient salmon fishery. How much action can one slice of land host?
Quite a lot, as it happens.
We piled into the car and headed for Portree, where we strolled to the harbor for what has to be the most stunning fish and chips I’ve ever had in my entire life. And that is not hyperbole. I figured it would be good by the enormous bins of sliced potatoes soaking along the wall, but nothing prepared me for the first shattering bite, yielding to the most silky haddock, tasting of the ocean before it melted away and prompted me to take another bite. And the chips! Like the fish, their crisp belied a creamy interior, with more potato flavor than any chip I’ve had before or probably (sadly) ever will.
We couldn’t have our last day not marked with a trip to Old Inn, where we finally got a table on the first try! A round of beers, a round of whiskies, and we went home to clean up for dinner.
I’d booked a table at the Old School restaurant in Dunvegan. I loved the vibe, the specials on the old chalkboard, the drinks with local gin, the pitched roof. I could so see it as a one-room school house. The food was excellent, which shouldn’t surprise anyone by this point—we loved all our Scottish culinary adventures. And as ever, we closed with sticky toffee pudding and Scotch whiskey.
I wanted our drive back to last forever—the moonlight skating off each loch, the clutches of sheep in the field, huddled together. The winding road and the passing places. All of it felt out of a dream.
Day 6: Plockton and Inverness
What a wrench the next morning to pack up. Thanks to my mindful moments the day before, I took time to sit on a log and feel the wind, which allowed me an open heart as we bid goodbye to Isle of Skye.
But we’ll be back.
Oh, yes.
We’ll be back.
For now, we headed to Plockton, on our way to our departing flight out of Inverness the following day. I discovered Plockton in our bid to find a home for a month in Scotland as the first leg of our around-the-world journey. Which would have been an awesome trip, I’m sure, but COVID inserted its grimy head into the mix, so that’s a trip for another decade. In any case, for that trip we’d booked a month in a cottage in Plockton so when we realized it was on the way to Inverness, we decided to stop in and say hello to the town that was going to be part of our lives.
It’s an adorable town, right on a loch. I stood with Gabe in the harbor and said, “I wonder what it would have been like?”
Gabe was the one of us the most dispirited by our shifting our plans for a year-around-the-world to a year in pandemic-soaked Italy. Partly being the youngest, partly because he had long-haul COVID so any emotion felt bigger, and partly because he is my fellow dreamer. You’d think that the whole family would have been excited about planning a global adventure, but it was mostly Gabe and I spending Saturday mornings poring over maps and wondering about traveling the Silk Roads. He’s the one of us who still remembers every inch of our proposed itinerary, the one who still sighs when he thinks of Lithuania, the leg he’d planned.
So imagine my surprise when he shrugged and said, “I prefer the year we got.”
Now, I totally agree, but this was the first I’d heard that he harbored no resentment. I nodded, noting that it would have been hard, perhaps, to land here for a month together. Unlike Skye, the landscape was more wooded, so it was harder to picture tromping all over the place during those daylight hours when Keith would have been working. Then again, we could have taken to the water—seeing the kayaks reminded me that I’d planned on having kayaking be a regular feature of our Plockton life.
We lucked into a table for lunch (apparently there are so many tourists spilling out of Isle of Skye, it’s hard to get a table in Plockton), and feasted on haggis and fish and chips (for Keith, I’m pretty sure he had it every day) and smoked haddock and local ciders.
I got flapjacks for the road to Inverness, though we were so full and happy from lunch, we barely nibbled their sweet, oaty goodness.
A short car nap later and we arrived in Inverness (look how much we trusted Keith driving now, to fall asleep!). We were there for so little time, I can hardly comment on it, other than to say it’s a beautiful city, and the place in which I felt more foreign than almost anywhere I’ve ever been. And, for context, I’ve been to Luang Prabang.
It felt odd at first, but then I finally realized—it’s because Inverness is full of local people doing their local things and they really don’t notice visitors at all. It’s not set up for tourists, but it’s bubbling over with people celebrating life (I saw more women in full make-up, with tiaras, than I ever have before). Once I realized what felt so off, I could relax into it. How amazing to go to a corner of the globe where my presence stirs not a trickle of interest. I could really do my favorite thing which is observing. And what I observed was people out having a pretty fabulous time.
We opted for pizza for dinner at Black Isle Bar. A strange choice, I know, but, after living in Italy for 2 years, I hardly go a few days without garden herbs or a tomato, so nine days felt like a haul. We found a place with a roof garden, and though it took us a bit to get our bearings, we finally nabbed a table. Once we plopped down with visible glee, the people at the next table leaned over and said, “Listen, this is one of the two sunny days a year we get in Inverness, so everyone wants to be at a rooftop garden.”
We laughed and laughed and ordered beer and then the pizza came and we grew silent. This was excellent, excellent wood-fired pizza! Perfect crust and unlike the mistake US pizzerias often make, the sauce was savory with a bit of bite, rather than too sweet. Also the combinations were fun and very Scotland-y—lamb meatballs with fresh mint and another with venison salami. Way to bring it, Black Isle Bar! Kinda wished we’d also ordered the black pudding pizza, I’m sure it’s amazing.
Also, this pizza lark turned out to be inspired. In a place like Inverness, how many people are going to pubs for pub food on a beautiful evening? Unless they are watching sports, not many. Instead, they want to congregate at their neighborhood pizza joint. So the atmosphere was giddy and ebullient and totally local. The man next to me leaned over to ask if I minded if he smoked. I was so full of good feeling, and so surprised that he would ask, I magnanimously assured him it was a-okay.
We strolled back to the Airbnb, a bit caught of guard with the realization that our Scotland trip was drawing to a close.
One more note though, in case you wind up in Inverness, as we did. While some rental car agencies are right off the airport parking lot, others, like, as of this writing, Alamo and Sixt, are quite a way away. This wouldn’t be a big deal if there was a shuttle or if the google maps pathway that cuts across a field were accessible. Unfortunately, the shuttle was not running early in the morning and an enormous fence blocked our access through a field. Which is a literal field, by the way. Not ideal for a rolling suitcase.
So we had to hoof it down the main road, where there is no sidewalk, as cars sped past. We arrived at the airport, out of breath and not a little sweaty. Not only that, we arrived to find an enormous line. Luckily, we’ve flown so much we get some American Airlines priority perk and got to use the shorter line, but it came pretty close to being a possible catastrophe.
All that was forgotten, though, at security. I know, I know, security is not where you usually find the best of humanity. In fact, hours later when we arrived in Philadelphia, a TSA agent reamed Gabe for a gum wrapper in his pocket, scowling in the face of his apologies for missing it, with: “Is a gum wrapper a THING? Didn’t you say you didn’t have ANY THING in your pocket???”
But these security ladies were like the best of grandmas. Not only were they kind, they seemed to have learned what no security guards seems able to keep in mind, namely THE RULES FOR SECURITY CHANGE AT EVERY AIRPORT, SO WE HAVE NO WAY OF KNOWING IF YOU WANT A KINDLE IN ITS SEPARATE TUB. Seriously, we get such grief for vagaries of one airport’s methods, which we would have no way of knowing, but security guards seem to think that we’re being obtuse on purpose when we stop to take off our belt, yelling, “Leave it!” as if we’re dogs sneaking sandwiches from the trash can.
These ladies, though, were all, “Oh, don’t worry about your shoes, love. Here, do you need a bin for your coat? I’ve got one right here for you.”
So even with the near-miss of the flight, we left Scotland feeling loved and cared for.
While I’m sad to leave it behind, there’s a special kind of contentment that comes with knowing, in some way— even a muted way—I have everything I need to go back, at any time. I don’t need an airline ticket and learning to drive on the left side of the road all over again, or dodging sheep in passing places.
I lived those moments in Scotland so thoroughly, now to recall the serenity and joy of the Scottish highlands, all I have to do is close my eyes. Breathe.
And sink into the moment.
In that moment, Scotland—her blues and greens playing into the distance, her wind caressing my cheek—there, Scotland waits.
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