The quick but astounding (and football-heavy) London leg of Spring Break UK behind us, it was time to turn our sights north to the Scottish Highlands.

There are varied ways to get there, of course—all manner of trains, planes, and automobiles. Even lorries! But not being used to driving on the left side of the road, we didn’t fancy learning in London (are you loving how much the UK rubbed off on my language skills?). Plus, something about taking the train through England to parts both north and unknown drew me in.

Probably too much Harry Potter.

Speaking of, did you know there really is a Platform 9 3/4 at King’s Cross Station? Obviously, I don’t mean a barrier you can fling yourself through to find yourself at a steam engine bound for Hogwarts. But there is a plaque marking the column between 9 and 10 (as an author, I can’t imagine what it must feel like to have such an homage to your world building).

Across the way from King’s Cross is Saint Pancras station, with a Waterstones (the British bookstore chain). Keith needed a mystery for the train, and I tagged along. I didn’t need any reading material since I’d already loaded up my Kindle with all sorts of books, set in the UK, and I have plenty of willpower to ignore the siren song of new books.

Curious about UK-thematic books I’d loaded onto my Kindle?

Six Books for a trip to the UK

44 Scotland Street—a building of colorful characters set in Edinburgh

The Turn of the Key—a psychological thriller set in the Highlands

The Murder of Mr. Wickham (I sudden remembered I told my son Gabe I was going to make him watch a Jane Austen adaptation before we left and I forgot!)—Jane Austen meets Agatha Christie

Five Days in Skye—romance and cooking and Highlands; it could be too heavy on the romance for me (I don’t mind romance in my books, but I need more than that), but we’ll see

Letters from Skye—I have a weakness for a book told in letters

(note: all Amazon hyperlinks are affiliate links. If you buy a book via the link, I’ll get a few pennies, but it won’t change what you pay)

You see why we need a "wanderlust" category of books? No other term can capture the breadth of genre in the stack above! I knew I wouldn’t get through all of them, but figured they would help me keep that "spring break UK" feeling going once we left tartan soil for a banner of stars and stripes.

In any case, I was well stocked and did not need EVEN ONE MORE BOOK, NO MATTER HOW GOOD IT LOOKED. NO, NOT EVEN THAT DISHOOM COOKBOOK.

But then my eye fell on Red Sauce, Brown Sauce and my willpower crumpled. I decided that 10 quid was a small price to pay to dive headlong into Felicity Cloake’s story of bicycling around the UK, researching all the items in a Full English breakfast. I mean. I can hardly be blamed, can I? Besides, the book fit neatly into my purse, unlike the Dishoom cookbook. Frankly, I think I deserve a prize for limiting myself to one.

Maybe another book!

We boarded our train, more than a little giddy to be stepping into a first class car. The tickets from London to Edinburgh were £60, such a steal that Keith upgraded them for an extra £30, reasoning that for a five hour train ride, we’d be glad to set up shop with a table between us. It turns out, even better than that table (which we definitely did get a lot of use of, it felt good to have us face each other, like we were in our own little room) was what we found on that table. Menus! The train provided us with a meal! And drinks! And snacks.

I peeked at my new paperback and grew so excited, I flew through the end of 44 Scotland Street so I could put it aside and settle into my new book. 44 Scotland Street was great, don’t get me wrong, but I always prefer paper over electronic books, and besides I just KNEW that Red Sauce, Brown Sauce would attune my eye for the culinary notes of our vacation. I was not wrong. Without the book, I would have missed the Lorne sausage and I wouldn’t have paid attention to how good Highland water is for porridge. More on both of these later (note: when I posted a photo of Red Sauce, Brown Sauce, a reader told me that it wasn’t available in the US until October, which is true, though you can get the electronic version anytime!).

As the train rumbled, gathering momentum, I remembered the debate I’d had with Keith and Gabe the day before, about whether or not I might have overly romanticized the upcoming train ride. I am, admittedly, apt toward sentimentality and wonder as I travel-plan, but since I’m very rarely disappointed, as a family we decided that my growing dreamy-eyed at anything from a train ride to an Autogrill stop was perfectly acceptable. Even, perhaps, an asset. Okay, nobody else added the asset part, but quietly that’s what I decided.

Walking through the world, sure that beauty lies around the corner and perennially pleased with all that I find, what can be bad about that? And if you open your mouth to suggest that while I’m starry-eyed, I’m not preparing myself for disaster, I’ll assure you that there is no such thing as preparing yourself for disaster. I’d rather have shored up my resources in advance by enjoying my life as it is than be depleted by looking for curve balls that might never come.

In any case, as the train passed rolling green hills and fields of sheep, all under a crystalline blue sky, I sat back in wonder. You’d think sheep are sheep, but watching them gambol around never got old. Then an enormous hare that looked like a character from Wind in the Willows rocketed away from the train. Gabe and I gasped out loud, and then laughed at our storybook ride.

Then we ordered breakfast—porridge for me! A bacon roll for Keith, and Gabe got a waffle with local jam. “Local” is a funny concept on a train, isn’t it? The menu was loaded with products produced in towns along the tracks. Last year, I’d been tickled by an interview with the author of Chaat: Recipes from the Kitchens, Markets, and Railways of India, where she recounted traveling through India by train as a child, and at certain stops, almost by unspoken agreement, people would pour off the train to grab a bowl of the local specialty.

The miles of rail slipped behind us, measured in fields of sheep. Big, fluffy mammas that looked like marshmallows on legs. Tiny babies like white Tic Tacs. All just too dear.

Oh, and a deer! Cavorting away, over the hedges.

When we reached the northern edges of England, I began noticing ancient rocks walls that varied in size from the tactical (dividing nation-states) to what seemed largely theoretical (about ankle height). All held together with nothing but moss and history.

As we crossed into Scotland, the sea made her first appearance, winking and dancing into the distance. Just then, the train attendant handed out flapjacks, which in the UK do not mean pancakes, but rather a granola bar with the texture of a rice krispy treat and the flavor of butterscotch. Delightful! I’m definitely going to work on a recipe once home.

All in all, a spectacular entrance to Edinburgh. Once there though, we could no longer deny the inevitable. From the relative—and serenely beautiful—safety of train transportation, we were now moving to the much more panic-inducing sensation known to Americans as:

“Driving on the Left Side of the Road.”

This is terror enough, but we hadn’t reckoned this: We rent cars all the time in Italy, France, wherever, and don’t think to specify automatic, because my husband (who loves driving and gets carsick if he’s not—which works well for me because I’d vastly prefer staring out the window and untangling plot points while comparing passing sheep to candy) enjoys a manual transmission. So when Keith booked our car, it didn’t occur to him to upgrade to an automatic because it didn’t occur to him that not only do they drive on the left side of the road in the UK, the stick shift is also on the left.

I could see Keith’s heart pounding in his eyes as he spent far longer than usual inspecting the car for pre-existing damage. A car with 14 miles on it. You should know, by the way, that the UK, like the US, uses Imperial notation, miles rather than kilometers.

Somewhat relieved that at least the pedals were all arranged in the usual US order, but still pretty sure he was going to get us all killed, Keith pressed his lips together and declared there was no time like the present.

He would not allow me to take a “before” photo but he did allow me to take an “after” shot, when he’d finally parked the car a few blocks away from our apartment. In that time frame, we’re pretty sure he drove in the bus lane in his quest to keep as left as possible (we are waiting for news of a ticket), but he drove on the correct side of the street the whole time, managed to remember to turn left by crossing no lanes and turn right by crossing one, and we didn’t die.

Yay!

I know for many of you, the thought of driving on the left is so unsavory you’d avoid it all together. We might have ourselves, but for a trip to Isle of Skye, one needs a car, or a guide. So if you, like us, find yourself driving in the UK, here are my tips to best weather the fear of the left lane.

Eight Tips for Americans driving in the UK

Specify the smallest car that will comfortably hold you. Highland roads can be very narrow, diving a behemoth will only stress you out. At the car rental office I watched a poor family in a panic at being given the keys to an enormous van. Not a mini-van, more like a half of a school bus.
Specify automatic. Even if you primarily drive manual, driving stick with your LEFT HAND adds a level of complication that you really don’t want while you are merging into a traffic circle that is rotating clockwise, of all things.
If you can, do try to get your car from a rental outfit on the outskirts of a city, so you don’t have to do scary in-city driving before you get some muscle memory going.
Rest easy that at least the Brits are excellent drivers. Better than the US or Italy (bring on the hate mail, but it’s true). For instance, when they round a curve, they stay solidly in their lane, rather than drifting over to make for a more comfortable turn, like in the US, or deciding that lanes are for people who don’t know what they’re doing, like in Italy. I mention this so you can worry less about unexpected surprises.
There’s a vast amount of directional signage, which also helps.
Watch out for sheep. Not metaphorical ones. Real sheep. They seem to believe that the road is an excellent place to stop and scratch or caper for a spell.
On Skye, and I expect other remote places, most of the roads are a single lane. To allow for cars going in both directions, there are “passing places” where a car can pull to the side and wait for oncoming traffic to pass. It can feel natural and normal to pull into the right-hand passing place, since it’s hardly changing lanes, given that it’s a single track road. Don’t! Stay to the left, use the passing places on your side (or pause on the left and let oncoming traffic use the passing place to skirt around you), even if it means pulling to the side way before you need to because estimating how long it will take a car to overtake you becomes a wonky process in the Highlands. Remember your Highland manners and wave in acknowledgement of folks who pull over for you!
Take it one mile at a time.

This last one is particularly important. Driving in the UK is not unlike labor (bet you’ve never heard the two compared before)…if you get hung up on how many roundabouts and turns lie between yourself and your destination, you will tense up and the whole thing will be awful. You have to take it one mile, one turn, one roundabout at a time.

How well this mile-at-a-time dovetails with the mindfulness work I’ve been doing! I’ve spent months now learning to notice when my thoughts are darting around like minnows and bringing them back to breath, just one inhale and one exhale at a time. The work has allowed me to quiet my constantly jangling mind, to allow myself to be present and aware.

As it turns out, Scotland is an excellent proving ground for practicing and celebrating those mindfulness skills—from taking it one bend in the road at a time, to shivering when your foot sinks in a hidden bog without stressing about about walking the rest of the way with muddy feet. Plus, the open-hearted curiosity that comes from mindfulness comes in right handy for drinking in the astonishing vistas of the Highlands.

But before those Highlands, we had to connect with Nicolas, our eldest, and his girlfriend Julia, who were able to take a week off work to join us in Scotland. With Keith’s stunning brand of precision, he somehow had our Houstoners stepping off the tram from the airport a scant hour after we set our bags in the apartment.

Unfortunately, our time in Edinburgh was short, so I can’t give you much information about the city. It was a tradeoff we reluctantly made—to spend more time on Skye, with just an overnight in Edinburgh and Inverness to accommodate our inbound and outbound travels.

Which is too bad, Edinburgh seems a wonderful city. But I don’t regret the decision. After all, Edinburgh will still be there next time, and for people who are allergic to sights, we somehow managed to pack in quite a bit in our short stay.

Most of what we packed in, not surprisingly if you read my earlier post about London, involves pubs. Correction, it all involves pubs.

We had small moments of pub joy in Edinburgh, like one pub where musicians sat around a table playing traditional music and another pub where we had, you guessed it (if you read my earlier post) onion rings and cask ale while watching football. But there were two experiences that deserve space above the fold.

The first concerns Sunday roast. I didn’t know Sunday roast as being “a thing” until I researched pubs in London and realized that most had two menus, a daily menu and a “Sunday roast” menu.

I resonated with this concept at a visceral level because for years now, I have favored a long-cooking meal for Sunday dinner, preferably one that makes the house smell like home. In fact, if my dad calls on a Sunday, he’ll ask, “Are you roasting a chicken?” I usually am, when I’m not making a stew or baking a lasagna. Something about a down-home, cozy meal on Sunday, to round out the week and bolster us with fortitude for the week ahead just seems right. So the idea of a whole and codified meal for Sunday, just set me gleeful. I mean—roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes and parsnips, cauliflower cheese, and gravy? That’s a mic drop culinary moment in my world.

Sunday roast at the Queens arms, Edinburgh

Alas, we weren’t in London over a Sunday, but hooray! You can find them just as easily in Edinburgh. I reserved a table at the Queen’s Arms, hoping hoping hoping that the kids wouldn’t be delayed and miss it.

Luckily, as you know, they cruised off that tram with time to spare, so all five us us entered the pub ready to get our roast beast on.

I was ready to be wowed, but I was not ready to be bowled over.

The beef was staggeringly good, the potatoes, decadent. But the Yorkshire puddings were otherworldly, the popover version of an enormous peony flower, ridiculous in its explosive beauty. And the gravy made it all next level.

Throw in some sticky toffee pudding and that Sunday roast set the bar for Sunday roast. You can bet I’ll be trying to get my hands on a Yorkshire pudding pan. I’m already mulling over menus that offer the same kind of homey decadence as the Queen’s Arms Sunday roast.

The second epic pub experience (please note: we were in Edinburgh about twelve hours—this amount of pub action is probably a problem, and you shouldn’t use it as a model) involves whiskey and gravediggers.

I found this pub thanks to Spotted by Locals, an app that curates destination highlights with content submitted by, you guessed it—locals. It’s a great idea, and you can filter the content by category or location on a map. It’s got other features as well, and is well worth the $2.99 a month. It used to be $2.99 a destination, but now it’s monthly, which was great since I could use it for New York, London, and Edinburgh and then I cancel it until I need it again. In any case, Spotted by Locals is how I discovered the Athletic Arms of Edinburgh, familiarly known as “Diggers”.

This pub is located between two graveyards so its primary clientele used to be gravediggers. Hence the name. It gained in popularity (no doubt helped by an urban legend that the pub had a direct pipeline to a nearby brewery), so much so that the staff developed signs to communicate with each other across a noisy floor. The regulars learned the signs and would walk in, make a sign for their order to the staff, and find it ready by the time they bellied up to the bar. When outsiders stumbled in unawares, charmed by the camaraderie and the vast whiskey collection (500…that’s right five hundred), they’d order the old fashioned way. You know, like with words. To which harried barkeeps would respond that perhaps they’d be better off taking their custom elsewhere.

I got some of this information from the Spotted by Locals app, the rest I got from a sign within Diggers, because you have to know that the extensive whisky menu and the image of gravediggers leaning their shovels against the bar was enough for me to put a stop here on our itinerary. Keith checked the location and let out a low whistle. “It’s like, a forty minute walk from here.”

I shrugged. We were in Scotland to walk! Let’s begin with a tramp through Edinburgh! One step at a time!

The delight lasted as we traipsed through old Edinburgh, bathed in moonlight, but faded as we crossed under a highway into a part of town that I usually associate with body shops, both of the automative and strip variety. Finally Keith gestured toward a gate. “We go that way.”

Gulp. “Through a graveyard?”

Yes.

“At night?”

Also, yes.

“Are we even allowed?”

Boh (we cannot divest ourselves of this Italian expression, a curious mix of “I have no idea” and “what are you gonna do?”).

The iron gates stood open, but we still paused as we walked past what looked like a caretaker’s cottage with a woman at the window, washing dishes. Nobody stopped us. So we continued on, noting that somebody followed us into the graveyard, which didn’t lessen that cemetery feeling of eyes on me, but it did assure me that we weren’t trespassing by strolling past the graves after hours.

In silence, we walked through the cemetery. Moonlight caught in the leggy trees, casting more shadow than light across the path. Movement flickered in the corners of my vision, vanishing into stillness as soon as I turned my head. I couldn’t tell if the faint rustling came from fallen leaves protesting my tentative footfalls or some creature huddled behind the crumbling headstones.

With a full exhale, we arrived onto the sidewalk, outside the Athletic Arms. I wondered if the pub’s interior would match the spookiness that the gravediggers must have brought with them, every time they came in for a pint. I smiled at the sign outside the door that announced “muddy boots and paws welcome.”

Any lingering shadows melted away in the brightly-lit cheerfulness of the hubbub within. Unbeknownst to us, we had walked into pub trivia night and as we passed the announcer set up at the door, we cast around in vain for an open seat or even an opening at the bar. Not one spot, though we did find a little room at the back of the pub with the words “The Snug” etched into the frosted window. From behind the closed door, I heard a traditional band rehearsing. There is nothing like the sound of traditional music to make your heart and toes go pitter-pat and embolden your decision to order a whiskey and see what happens, even when you can’t find a spot to stand.

As we waited to order, a woman appeared at my elbow, asking if I knew the answer to the question about something measured in “crisps”. She pointed at the stand of crisps on the bar and said, “I think I could be measured in crisps.” And we both laughed. Keith helped another team with a question about the finale of an American TV show.

All the whiskey options made my head spin, so I ordered a Scotch whiskey from the recommended list clipped to a board on the shelves sagging with bottles, below the TV tuned to football (PSG versus Lyon) and next to a notice that the Snug could be reserved for free.

I took a “nice to meet you” sniff of the 12 year old Dalmore Scotch whiskey, inhaling the rich scent of caramel and butter and smoke, as I gazed around the bar, packed with people laughing and scribbling over pieces of paper as the announcer read off more questions in his lilting Scottish brogue. Every once in awhile, the room would quieten enough for the whips of traditional music from the Snug to wend their way throughout the bar (see video).

The Scotch was magnificent, it cannot be denied, but I wondered if next time I’d find it underwhelming, without the atmosphere of Diggers burbling around me. As it turns out, I did have it again and it pleased me just the same, but that was in the Old Inn pub in Carbost—another warn and lively place with traditional music played at a table in the next room. More on that later (make sure you are signed up for my newsletter, The Grapevine, to get that post in your mailbox along with recipes, travel tips, and freebies!).

I realized that whiskey, it reflects the character of Scotland—golden like caramel, flavored by a long-faded smoke, steadied by old wood and older music.

The next morning we went to Dishoom for breakfast. I had wanted to go to this Bombay inspired restaurant in London (where there are several Dishoom outposts) based on the fact that everyone I asked about London recommended a meal there. In the end, we decided on Chicama. One because Peruvian-Japanese fusion seemed almost too fabulous and also they took reservations and I didn’t want to spend our limited London time waiting in line (Dishoom does, for the record, take reservations, but only for times that wouldn’t work for us). Then, on one of our aimless Chelsea-Kensington strolls, we passed a Dishoom and the smell was so intoxicating we lingered outside, in the rain, trying to figure out if it were possible to enjoy two lunches in a day. Though the debate was really a smokescreen to keep inhaling.

So imagine my glee when I discovered a Dishoom just a few minutes walk from our Rose Street Airbnb in Edinburgh! And further, that they serve breakfast! I could think of no better way to fortify ourselves for the drive ahead. Drives don’t usually demand fortification, of course, but then again drives don’t involve death defying heroics like, say, driving in the upside-down, parallel universe known as ON THE LEFT SIDE OF THE ROAD.

Dishoom is an homage to Irani cafes that I suggest you read about if you go (on Dishoom’s website). Understanding the concept adds to the experience. Mostly, I just loved the aesthetics and the food. I’ve never had chai like that before, so zesty and full. I had a bacon roll, also a world apart from any I’ve had. A bacon roll, in case you are new to the bacon roll scene, is just bacon in a roll. Nothing really more to it than that. But of course they vary in deliciousness based on the quality of the bacon, the bread, and the condiments. Dishoom’s bacon roll boasted some pretty fabulous streaky bacon wrapped in naan that was soft and pillowy while being pliable and blistered by heat. A bit of cream cheese, tomato-chili jam, and fresh cilantro leaves made the whole thing sing. Excellent!

Gabe ordered Dishoom’s nod to the Full English breakfast—the Big Bombay, which had caught my eye with its spiced eggs, Shropshire pork sausages, masala beans (outstanding), grilled field mushrooms, grilled tomatoes, and fresh-baked buns. It was equally good, as were everyone’s meals, but other than sneaking masala beans from time to time, I couldn’t get my mind off my own bacon roll.

I left really wishing I’d gotten that Dishoom cookbook at the shop at Saint Pacras Station. But a quick internet search on our walk to the car assured me I could easily find it on Amazon.

We piled in the car and fell silent, waiting for Keith to turnover the engine. I resolved to keep my shoulders loose and my voice calm, but I couldn’t help throwing up my hands as it looked like each rearview mirror on the left side of the car was flying towards us. It may not be as weird to be a passenger on the left as it is to drive on the right side of the car, but it is still heaps weird. Through clenched teeth, I suggested Keith slow down and through clenched teeth, he said nothing.

Soon enough we were out of the city and things became easier. In fact, they became delightful. A castle perched on the hill, overlooking verdant farmland….more fields of sheep…and after a couple of hours, our first lochs, shining like mirrors reflecting the uncommon blue of the sky.

Well into the Highlands, we stopped at a general store-cum-cafe called the Jaggy Thistle. Mostly because of the name. How could you not stop at a place called the Jaggy Thistle?

We looked over the menu, wondering what food in the Highlands would be like. A few fish options, some things on toast, and of course, the very polarizing haggis.

Haggis, as you may know, is either the hero or antihero of Scottish cuisine, depending on your opinion of sheep’s pluck. Sheep’s pluck. Such a magical, winsome name for the lungs and hearts and liver of a sheep. Haggis takes those bits, mixes them with oats and spices and, because this isn’t controversial enough, boils the brew up in a sheep’s stomach.

I was all set to hate haggis, for what I like to think of as obvious reasons. In fact, readers of my memoir of living in Italy may remember that toward the end of that year, our family was invited to dinner at Nicolas’s best friend’s home, where platters of a meat bits of unknown provenance awaited us. I cautiously asked about the dish, hoping my voice landed more in the “eager, excited” end of the continuum rather than the “fractious, nervous” range it sounded like to my own ears. Proudly, our hosts explained the platter held coratella. They went on to explain that coratella is often found at Umbrian tables at Easter, and features lamb lungs, heart, and liver. Keith had just been discharged from the hospital after a bout of pneumonia and the word for lungs and the word for pneumonia sound awfully similar in Italian. I felt like I was staring down the disease that had derailed my husband’s health, and our family’s fragile equilibrium for the past weeks. Though I nibbled bits to be polite, I’ll sheepishly (ha!) confess to you that I mostly hid the coratella under my bread, wondering in vain why something so awful had such a regal name. I wanted so badly to be gracious and polite to these lovely lovely people, but my stomach clamped down hard every time I brought a forkful of pneumonia, that is lungs, to my lips.

Nicolas tucked in with his trademark right good will. My eyes widened at his advanced palate, but when his buddy scraped more coratella onto Nicolas’s plate and my son responded by turning a delicate shade of green, I realized he had somehow managed to be more polite than his mother and was now paying for it.

Funnily enough, given that incident, Nicolas’s eye went straight to the haggis on the menu and he expressed an enthusiasm I could not summon for sheep’s pluck boiled with oatmeal. Julia concurred and though she flirted with some other options, the two of them, as they often do, quickly established which two dishes they were getting to share. Julia ordered the haggis roll and he ordered the smoked haddock with melted cheese. Neither sounded like welcoming introductions to Highlands cuisine but they ended up being the stars of the table (though my creamy mushrooms on toast was a laudable third place option and Keith’s smoked mackerel on potato salad was also a worthy addition. Gabe’s pork and chorizo burger was delicious but lost points for being something we could order in Charlottesville).

I swallowed hard when the haggis arrived and wondered anew how my boy and his girlfriend could have such adventurous palates. They have traveled quite a bit for their age, they are very into food (both of which make them excellent travel companions), but still… being that excited about haggis? I couldn’t relate.

Until Julia offered me a bite and my mind exploded. Wow. Wow wow wow. It was not at all what I expected. Crumbly like hamburger meat (rather than gooey and viscous, as I’d somehow imagined), the subtle warm spices of nutmeg and coriander worked with the oats and pluck to create an earthy, nutty, yet lilting flavor. We all fell in love and enjoyed haggis in many forms over the course of the rest of the week.

After lunch, we trundled into the car and set off for Skye.

With every mile, the landscape became more dramatic. Fading sunlight glinted off the lochs and the earth began thrusting upward, as if to beat back its restraints. The further west we drove, the more untamed the landscape became.

I spent unfurling miles upon miles trying to name the color of the low growing plants—earthy tones of mauve and wine and green, with sparks of yellow waving from bushes. The colors blurred together, as if they were once distinct blobs of oil paint that fell victim to a tantrumming child, swiping chaotically across the canvas.

I’m not a forest gal (though I love me forest friends like hedgehogs and gnomes, who no one can convince me aren’t an actual thing), so this scrubbed bare landscape suited me. As a child, I read nothing but fairy tales and I suddenly realized how many of them must have been born here. Not the Disney fairy tales populated by vain step-mothers and a love that conquers all (even comas), but the kind with actual fairies, tempestuous and clever, with lives and loves that have nothing to do with us.

Surprised by the sudden coastline, I remembered selkies, those magical seals that could shed their skin to take on human form. As if from the dim recesses of my brain, I recalled all those stories of changelings, creatures left in cradles when the fairies whisked away human babies to raise them in their own lands. And how about kelpies, Scottish water spirits that often appear to humans as a horse and have been ostensibly only found between the outer Hebrides and the Scottish mainland.

And Skye, I realized, as we crossed the bridge onto the island, lies between those outer Hebrides and the rest of Scotland, and is therefore known as the Inner Hebrides.

My reverie on the connection between landscape and mythology broke when confronted with 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 as the scenery changed again. How could a place look this slapdash? As if some unseen, primal force long ago 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. Peppered with snow for no reason.

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 and split by a waterfall, materialized before us, and I revised my previous assessment.

Skye is not just bananas.

Skye is unhinged.

Coming next! My post on walking all over the Isle of Skye. Sign up for my newsletter so you don’t miss it!