“It was impossible for a woman to go about alone,” Virginia Woolf wrote of Jane Austen in “A Room of One’s Own.” “She never travelled … or had luncheon in a shop by herself.”
When Storm Agnes hits the UK and you hike the Quiraing anyhoo.
This was my first trip with Wilderness Scotland, a UK travel company based in Aviemore. They do a bazillion active trips all over Scotland (there’s also a Wilderness Ireland and Wilderness England) generally with one guide and group of eight guests. My conclusion is that it’s an awesome company and 10/10 would recommend.
I booked a trip focused on the Outer Hebrides with a couple of days in Skye. Everyone met at the Inverness train station, and I was pleasantly surprised to see that our group was all women. Two friends from Alaska, a mother and daughter from Canada, and a mother, daughter and aunt from Vermont and Arizona. Our guide was Liam, originally from Glasgow and now living in Ft. William. After a round of introductions, we hopped in an unmarked black van (Wilderness Scotland isn’t into excessive branding) and headed west toward Skye. The weather was complete dreich and Liam was worried our planned walk on Skye could be a miserable blend of inhospitable conditions (he wasn’t wrong). He opted for an interim stop for coffee and a lovely, more sheltered walk on the mainland at Dundreggan Rewilding Centre, one of the many, many rewilding efforts taking place across Scotland and indeed the entire UK.
Contemplative bench at Dundreggan.
The stop was a perfect way to loosen up and begin the process of getting to know one another. Sufficiently caffeinated, we continued on toward Skye, driving down beautiful Glen Shiel (where Liam told us about the Battle of Glen Shiel during the 1719 Jacobite Rising which was attended by the freaking Spanish Armada) and stopping briefly at the unavoidable Eilean Donan Castle. I probably made enough snarky comments about this tourist honeypot in my last blog but in fairness it is gorgeous and so here’s the equally unavoidable photograph.
So this van was in the parking lot. And seriously so many style points for the protective tinfoil, the Queen incongruously smiling from the window and the stenciled flamingo. Unfortunately I don’t know where its hubcaps are, any inside information about the Endtime or why Eilean Donan Castle would be of any possible interest.
Having ticked that box, we set off over the gorgeous Skye Bridge to Glen Sligichan, where there’s a long trail down the glen between the Black Cuillin and the Red Cuillin, two very different mountain ranges a stone’s throw from one another. The Red Cuillin is composed of reddish-tinged granite, which is less resistant to glacial activity and so its hills are quite rounded and friendly-looking whereas the Black Cuillin (composed of basalt and gabbro) features the highest peaks on Skye and has a forbidding rocky, jagged profile with all the Mordor vibes. Considered to be the most challenging and spectacular range in Britain, twelve of Skye’s Munros are here, and it’s the location of the famous “Inaccessible Pinnacle,” known locally as the “In Pinn” (because, as Liam explained, Scots aren’t that interested in articulating a bunch of unnecessary syllables). And it’s not entirely inaccessible because of course it’s a top mountain-climbing goal for those who partake but it’s definitely a technical climb and looks completely yikes.
The history of these hills began a mere 61 million years ago with volcanic activity during the initial opening stages of the North Atlantic. As North America and Europe ripped apart (!!) large volumes of basalt lava erupted from long narrow fissures on what is now Scotland’s west coast. As time went on, this volcanic activity became focused at several specific locations, creating large, central volcanoes, and ultimately the Cuillin ranges.
Framing the entrance to the glen is the iconic Sligichan Bridge, built in the early 1800s. The story goes that if you dip your face in the chilly waters of the Sligichan river, you will enjoy eternal youth. I cannot tell you whether this is true because I most assuredly did not do it. I also most assuredly did not take the photo below – a gorgeous shot of Sligichan Bridge flanked by the Red Cuillin on the left and the Black Cuillin on the right.
Just beyond the bridge is a recently commissioned and installed bronze sculpture, all thanks to the fundraising efforts of a local historical society. The sculpture pays tribute to two renowned mountaineers, Norman Collie and John Mackenzie. John, born in 1856, grew up in a nearby crofting village and started climbing the Cuillin at the age of 10. He became the first native-born Scot to be a professional mountaineering guide. He met Professor Collie, an internationally renowned scientist and mountain expert, and they formed a friendship that endured for half a century.
Collie and Mackenzie, gazing toward the Black Cuillin.
We walked into the mist for about a mile or so and even though the Black Cuillin were shrouded, the views were stunningly beautiful. Before we turned around, Liam told us the geological origin story of the glen, and then the inevitable folktale about how things REALLY happened which involved a romantic misunderstanding, anger and revenge, culminating in the sun throwing her spear into the ground etcetera. The trail winds south through the Cuillin all the way to the west coast of Skye and it’s on my bucket list. Not today, though. Not today.
As we were leaving the glen, the top of the Black Cuillin ridge teased us with a shy momentary appearance:
Hooded crows hanging out in the parking lot.
After a lovely evening at the Uig Hotel perched over Uig Bay and the ferry that would take us over the Minch, the next day dawned wet and rainy as Storm Agnes bore down on the UK. Our plan was to hike the Quiraing and so we braved the elements swathed in our waterproofs and enjoyed the lack of crowds. I did this walk last spring in basically the same conditions and Liam expressed some concern about my interest in doing it again which I thought was sweet but bonkers, I mean have you SEEN this place Liam? I’d do it every morning if I lived nearby.
I’ll just share a few photos of the otherworldly Quiraing below.
As we approached the top of the walk, a young couple happily walked by who randomly happened to be from Oregon so we had a funny shouted conversation about being from Portland and Bend and what a small world.
During a rainy snack break near an extremely picturesque stone wall, we had another story from Liam, this time about the Bonnie Prince’s escape from Scotland after Culloden, featuring Flora MacDonald, whose grave is nearby (see my post from last spring’s trip).
And at last, I found the lone tree that is very very famous on Instagram.
As Storm Agnes slowly moved across the country, I was stunned to see photos posted by Kev and Kirsty of their lovely backyard, usually filled with birds and deer. Yikes. They downplayed the situation, characterizing it as a “wee update,” and they did not have to turn away any guests, but geez. Wilderness Scotland is based in Aviemore, and Liam assured me that this happens more often than one might wish and it is all actually fine.
After the Quiraing, we stopped at a very lovely and fancy hotel called the Flodigarry Inn. Amazingly, they didn’t mind that we brought in food from the outside, sat in their lobby and ordered coffees. We were soaking wet and left pools of water everywhere. Nobody said, “You can’t bring that food in here unless you are a hotel guest.” Very kind and civilized.
We ended the day with a circular walk around Portree, the largest town and capital of Skye.
Conde Nast travel named Portree one of the twenty most beautiful towns in the UK and Ireland. As with everywhere it seems, it’s been inhabited probably since Mesolithic times. In the 1700s, Portree was a popular point of departure for Scots sailing to America to escape poverty. And in 1946, The Royal Hotel, the site of MacNab’s Inn, was the last meeting place of Flora MacDonald and the Bonnie Prince after Culloden.
In Agnes’s wake, the next day’s weather actually looked pretty stunning, involving the sun and everything, which was excellent timing for our early afternoon crossing to the Outer Hebrides.
We took advantage of the beautiful morning to drive to the northernmost tip of the Trotternish peninsula for a lovely coastal walk called Rubha Hunish. The trail featured gorgeous views across to the Outer Hebrides, a Coast Guard lookout on a cliff which is now a bothy refuge for hikers, the ruins of Duntulm Castle and the remains of Erisco, a clearance village, which is this day ironically filled with grazing sheep, perhaps descended from the original sheep that displaced the less remunerative crofters who were shipped off to North America and Australia in the years after Culloden.
Beautiful morning light to welcome us to the walk.Duntulm Castle
A wonderful way to bid farewell to Skye – before sailing over the Minch to Harris and Lewis. I know I keep mentioning the crossing -the thing is I passionately love ferries and so become inordinately excited about the prospect of boarding one and sailing away.
After a delightful crossing (enough already!), we disembarked in Tarbert, the largest town on Harris. I should mention that the Isle of Harris and the Isle of Lewis are actually a single island, the main island of the Outer Hebrides. The northern 2/3 is Lewis, the southern 1/3 is Harris, and there are many cultural and linguistic differences between the two. Also, Harris is quite mountainous, boasting 30 peaks, whereas Lewis is much flatter.
Our first order of business was visiting one of the many, many beaches on Harris, Luskentyre Beach. On the short drive from the ferry, we were awestruck by the island’s striking, otherworldly geography. I’ve never seen anything like it. Very hilly, lots of water and exposed bedrock everywhere.
And in fact the geology of the Outer Hebrides is quite unique. The most remarkable rock found there is 300 million year old Lewisian gneiss, which some of the oldest rock in the world. On South Harris, where we were, it is mostly anorthosite, which is similar in composition to rocks found on the freaking moon.
The unfortunate thing is that this bedrock prevents electrical wires and cables from being buried so telephone poles dot this sparse and gorgeous landscape which is slightly jarring. People need power I guess. Also the bedrock is so exposed and the soil so sparse on the east side of Harris that they couldn’t bury anyone there and so the dead had to be hauled over to the west side via the aptly named “Coffin Road.”
Like much of the country, especially the islands, the Outer Hebrides have a Norwegian background, and by that I mean they were invaded by Vikings in the 9th century. Once on a podcast I heard a historian describe being a Viking as more of a job description than a people which is an excellent characterization. At any rate they ended up living there for 450 years.
In 1098 Edgar, a Scottish king, officially signed the islands over to King Magnus III. In the 1200s King Alexander II tried to reverse engineer a return policy and pestered King Haakon IV of Norway to buy them back, alas to no avail.
In the face of the Vikings’ steadfast refusal, these efforts died away until King Alexander III came on the scene. Alex was hell bent on realizing his father’s dream. As with many dysfunctional father-son relationships in powerful families, when Alex made moves to fulfill his father’s legacy, it immediately resulted in armed conflict.
Alex sent a letter to Haakon saying that if he didn’t allow Scotland to buy back the islands he’d just come over there and take them back for free. In response, Haakon gathered a fleet together which ended up getting stranded at Largs (near Glasgow) and Alex took advantage of this by launching a surprise attack. The fleet scarpered all the way back to Orkney where Haakon died unexpectedly in Kirkwall.
Haakon’s successor, Magnus, frankly exhausted by the thought of starting that whole thing over again, agreed to sell the islands back to Scotland in 1266. Alex/Scotland paid 4,000 marks and agreed that Norway could keep Orkney and Shetland (for now). This marked the end of the perhaps unnecessary Scottish-Norwegian War.
As a counterbalance to this rousing tale of war, daddy issues and derring-do, I will leave you with some photos from Luskentyre Beach and a Moment of Zen video, for which you may wish to turn up the volume.
I’ve been back from Scotland for way too long. Almost six weeks. Don’t get me wrong, I am fortunate to have great friends, a home I love and fulfilling work. I live in a beautiful mountainous place steeped in outdoor culture. Literally everyone is moving here (looking at you Californians). For the record, I’m extremely lucky. Even so, I feel the gentle pull of a Scottish tractor beam (sorry, reading Patrick Stewart’s delightful bio) and it feels sustaining, like a program running in the background. I’m returning in May but honestly this seems like an age away. And as it happens there’s a Scottish Gaelic word expressing this feeling exactly. There is no English translation.
The word is cianalas, something I’ve written about before. It is a deep-seated sense of belonging to the place where your roots lie, or where you feel profoundly at home. It’s a feeling that you are exactly where you need to be in the world, a feeling that runs right down to your toes and causes you to smile idiotically while hiking across a moor alone in the fog, wind and driving rain. It’s a place that dampens anxiety and worry and offers more zen than an hour of meditation. Cianalas is longing for the place you belong. At the (very high) risk of sounding impossibly cheesy and naive, there it is.
(Tonal shift warning for a brief PSA: to avoid annoying Scots, Gaelic is pronounced with a short “a” like “apple” – the perhaps more familiar pronunciation with a long “a” like “table” refers to Irish Gaelic – same roots, different language.)
So after that bit of schmaltzy waxing poetical, let’s rejoin our regularly scheduled programming and return to the Outer Hebrides, which is where the word cianalas actually originated. Our merry band of Wilderness Scotland travelers stayed at the lovely Harris Hotel in Tarbert. As Harris is the most mountainous area of the single landmass of Harris and Lewis, we planned to spend most of our hiking time there. Harris and Lewis combined are the largest island in Scotland with a population of about 21,000, and the important thing to remember is that most of them are MacLeods.
Our first day of walking featured more awesomely bad weather! We drove across a little bridge to another island southeast of Harris called Scalpay, and enjoyed a very rainy walk to Eilean Gas, one of the first four lighthouses to be built in Scotland. It looks back across the Minch toward Skye, so awesome views when it’s not all fogged in. It was built by Robert Stevenson in 1789 and became fully automated in 1978. Robert and his descendants designed and built basically all of Scotland’s lighthouses over a 150-year period. As we know, the black sheep of that family happened to be Robert Louis Stevenson, and our guide Liam shared how much he enjoyed imagining young Robert sitting off to one side, completely bored by all this tedious lighthouse whatever business, scribbling in a notebook and generally being a terrible disappointment to his family. Liam clearly saw RLS as a kindred spirit.
The grounds are pretty cool to wander about, with barracks and other associated buildings. If you happen to be there during high season, there’s even a coffee shop with views over the sea. I stared longingly through the windows at the espresso machine as a wee shot would have been just the thing on the cold wet day. “There’s an espresso machine in there, ” I told everyone, alas, to no avail.
There are always sheepies.
Here’s a cool thing. We happened to be visiting on the 234th anniversary of the original lighting of the lamp.
Liam told a story that I haven’t been able to confirm and that he might have conflated with another tale of a different Hebridean lighthouse, and so I’m going to share both as they are equally creepily awesome. He explained that two families once lived at Eilean Glas and their job was to operatethe lighthouse – it was very remote, no roads, and so the families had to be self-sustaining by growing their own food and so on. Apparently there were reports that the lamp hadn’t been lit for a few days, and so a crew was dispatched to investigate. They found food on the table and other signs of a sudden disappearance – and not a single family member remained, nor was anyone ever found. This got my mind spinning about writing a novel based on this unsolved mystery – I mean c’mon it’s basically an X-File and practically writes itself. So, when I got home, I did some googling.
The (rather well-known, actually) story I found involved the sudden disappearance of three men at the Eilean Mor lighthouse in the Flannen Islands about 32 miles west of Lewis. On December 26, 1900, a small ship arrived on shore, bringing a replacement lighthouse keeper, Joseph Moore. Strangely, nobody was at the landing platform to greet them, so Moore walked up the hill to the lighthouse. He noticed something was immediately sketchy as its door was unlocked and two of the three oilskin coats were missing from the entrance hall. In the kitchen Moore found half-eaten food and an overturned chair as if someone had jumped from their seat. And (whispers) the kitchen clock had stopped.
The men were never found, although there were some strange recent log entries. On December 12, Thomas Marshall, the second assistant, wrote of “severe winds the likes of which I have never seen before in twenty years.” Marshall also noted that James Ducat, the Principal Keeper, had been “very quiet” (serial killer alert!) and that the third assistant, William McArthur, a seasoned mariner and known as a “tough brawler,” had been crying. So maybe the quiet one lost his mind due to the alleged high winds and maybe the crying, killed the other two and tossed them into the ocean, and wandered off into the mist and over a cliff.
I say “alleged” because a later investigation by British authorities revealed that there were no reported storms in the area at that time. The weather was calm.
Maybe all three of them got drunk, went for a walk and took a pratfall into the sea at the same time, maybe it was a sea monster (amateur sleuths at the time really considered this), or it could have had something to do with the islands’ namesake St. Flannen. He was a 6th century Irish Bishop who later became a saint. He built a chapel on the island (the lighthouse keepers called it the “dog kennel” due to its size which possibly wasn’t great karma) and for centuries shepherds used to bring sheep to graze nearby but refused to sleep over due to reported haunty spirits.
Nobody has lived on the Flannen Islands since 1971, when the lighthouse became automated. I wonder if Moore stayed behind to operate the place or if he suffered a debilitating case of the willies and retired.
As for my plan to write a mystery, well, it’s been done and done again as far as Eilean Mor is concerned. The disappearances were included in episodes of Dr. Who, Genesis wrote an entire freaking song about it and there’s even a 2018 movie called The Vanishing with Gerard Butler.
So I might write a mystery about Liam’s story at Eilean Glas instead. A psychological thriller with lots of family drama and insanity from being trapped in a remote location with scarce resources, but also there is a sea monster and the ghost of a crazy saint and a chapel with a dog in it.
After story time at the lighthouse (Scots truly are natural storytellers), half of us headed back to the van and the rest completed the loop hike along the coast – the bog factor was off the charts which reminded Liam about that one time he had to pull a guest out of a sucking bog that was basically Scottish quicksand. We also happened upon the skeletal remains of a sheep. Don’t worry, it was all fine. As was the remarkable scenery. The red you see is water-logged sphagnum moss. More about that later.
Liam was a master at identifying plants and mushrooms along the trail, and on this hike he showed us some white spidery reindeer moss (which is actually a lichen). Pro-tip: if you ever find yourself walking for days across a frozen Norwegian tundra whilst on a secret mission to stop Hitler from gaining access to heavy water (a byproduct of fertilizer production that could be used to develop nuclear weapons), you must locate a reindeer. Of course, you need to kill the reindeer (sorry) for the meat and maybe to crawl inside the carcass for warmth, but also you can eat the reindeer moss in their stomachs as it is partially digested and thus more palatable for humans – and happens to be a vital source of vitamin C.
It is perhaps understatement to say that a mind-boggling set of circumstances had to exist to prevent Germany from developing and deploying a nuclear weapon before we did, and the seemingly innocuous hero known as reindeer moss could have been one of them.
Speaking of Nazis and nuclear weapons, I’ll just take a moment to drop a plug for Oppenheimer and this Oscar-worthy brilliant performance.
The singular Cillian Murphy
We ended our rather splendid, if water-logged day with a tour of Harris Distillery, the first (legal, ahem) distillery in Harris. It was opened and commenced production in 2015. Considering how long it takes to make and release whisky, the distillery did an excellent marketing job during what ended up being an eight-year interim period that included COVID. The BBC produced a documentary about their story, they held local and virtual ceilidhs and turned the distillery into a community gathering space. By 2017, the distillery had welcomed 144,000 visitors, including Prince Charles.
Also, like many Scottish distilleries, Harris makes a gin which provided income to hold them over since whipping up gin is a snap. While Botanist is probably the most well-known artisanal whisky-distillery crafted Scottish gin in the States, made by Bruichladdich on Islay, the behemoths, Hendrick’s, Gordon’s and Tanqueray – are also made in Scotland. The Harris gin is very, very tasty and was a smashing success from the jump. Its botanical of note is local sugar kelp seaweed (two tons collected by 2017) along with juniper, coriander, angelica root and cassia bark. It’s sold in a beautiful and distinctive ridged blue tinged bottle which won a Gold Award at the World Gin Awards in 2021 and is used as a table water bottle everywhere you look.
In yet another fun coincidence – Harris at last released its first whisky while we were there, the Hearach, which is Gaelic for a resident of Harris. And let me tell you, the entire island was utterly and completely stoked. We didn’t go anywhere the Hearach wasn’t offered up with a tinge of pride and excitement. The restaurant we had dinner on our final night, Flavour, which features just one seating, a tasting menu and an open kitchen, included the whisky in every single course and someone from the distillery was there to chat with us. The distillery has had a positive impact on the island economy, both in terms of tourism and its employment of local young people. It was created from the ground up as an integrated member of the Harris community. You love to see it, and you can definitely feel it.
The whisky is good, selling like hotcakes (I love that the first whisky release was 1,916 bottles, one for each resident of Harris), and the tour was fascinating. Every aspect of the distillery, the design, the materials, all of it – was carefully thought out and is related to Harris and its people. Many family members are involved with the company – and many women. And it’s the first distillery in my experience where they offer guests a taste of “pure spirit,” the clear liquid you see in the spirit safe – baby whisky before it’s casked and aged. Let me just say the alcohol content is hiiiigh.
Are we tired of fabulous coincidences? No? Well – as it turns out the world-renowned, gorgeous and utterly charming Hebridean Baker happened to be at the distillery that day (actually Liam rearranged our schedule to accommodate this) signing his new cookbook, his third, which hasn’t yet been released in the States. His name is Coinneach MacLeod (told you) and he had recently returned from a tour of the States and is heading out again next year. Two of my travel companions met him recently at the Grandfather Mountain Highland Games in North Carolina, and he was genuinely delighted to see them again. His cookbooks are not only filled with scrumptious recipes with a Scottish flair, but lots of stories and tales, many wonderful photographs of the Hebrides, its residents, his west highland terrier Sonnach and his partner Peter.
The following day was probably my favorite, Hebridean Baker notwithstanding, mostly because it was like a fantasy novel crossed with a Disney film, where our intrepid group were the only souls in existence – so maybe also a dash of post-apocalyptic adventure. We drove to one of the most well-known beaches on the west coast of Harris called Hùisinis, where a person could easily spend the entire day staring out to sea and pondering life’s big questions.
And we happened to run into some highland cattle on the drive there. These iconic beasts make tourists completely lose their minds. By this point I’ve seen a fair few of these lovely creatures during my travels but I will never fail to pull over when I come across a sacred Heilan Coo Gathering. In defense of tourists (which I rarely do) Liam, born and raised in Scotland, also loves them and kept remarking on their staggeringly high cuteness level. Coos are also extremely friendly and curious and seem to know they are being photographed because I swear they pose. They do not turn tail and skedaddle like sheep or other types of cattle. They must realize that they are a four-legged embodiment of Scotland and accept their lot with grace.
Yes, on an intellectual level, I know they are just cows.
And so after taking in the sands of Hùisinis our merry band of walkers headed up a cliff over the sea. We had a view of Scarp, a now uninhabited island that of course has an interesting and quirky history, this being Scotland and all. In the late 19th century the four square mile island boasted 213 residents. Fun fact, it was one of several Scottish islands where all the men gathered every morning in a so-called ‘parliament,’ to agree upon the work to be done that day. Sometimes these meetings could last several hours and this provides yet another example of why women should be in charge. The last family standing, Mr. and Mrs. Angus MacInnes and their two sons, left in 1971 on a boat. They landed at Hùisinis, their cattle swimming behind them. I like to think that they were highland cows.
Below is an undated photo of hardy Scarpians.
The remaining residents were Andrew Miller Mundy and his school friend Andrew Cox, who had moved to the island earlier that same year with his wife and baby. Several weeks after the MacInnes family left, a huge storm cut off the island and provisions ran low. Even though Scarp is only half a mile from Harris a storm can whip through that strait like nobody’s business, rendering it unnavigable due to swell and current. Mundy, in London at the time, sent a helicopter to rescue his girlfriend (romantic), a model who he later married (also romantic). And thus Scarp became a deserted island.
A handful of picturesque holiday homes remain that you’ll see in a minute, keeping in mind that they are only accessible via sea kayak. The island is owned by American musicologist Andrew Burr Bakewell, the founder of Harris Distillery. And I should see if he’s single.
I found a recent expired listing for a home on Scarp called The Primrose Cottage. A few tidbits: “There is no doubt the property requires significant upgrading,” and “we understand” the building had a new roof installed six years ago. There’s no septic, spring water is “available year-round” (bonus) and electricity is provided by a generator, although thankfully there is internet so what more do you need. The listing ends with “Brace yourself, Scarp is not for the faint-hearted.” There’s a restriction against using the property for “tourism/holidaymakers.” The realtors were accepting offers over £100,000. I wonder if it sold.
Liam also told us about another singular event for which Scarp is reknowned. In 1934 it became the setting of an exciting, if dubious, trial of the Western Isles Rocket Post (I swear). German scientist Gerhard Zucker, apparently filled with a desire to “bring the world together” via a postal-delivery system tried to send a literal rocket packed with 4,000 letters (some addressed to the King) over to Harris.
The mission failed with a dull explosion and a puff of smoke with smoldering letters scattered everywhere.
The day the rocket was launched, 28 July 1934, became known as Latha na Rocait. There’s a film about the whole affair named The Rocket Post that won the grand prize at the Stony Brook Film Festival. A play by the same name was produced in 2017 by the National Theatre of Scotland. The publicity materials state that it’s “part-play, part-gig and part-hoedown,” and is “full of humour, heart and hope for the future, it’s a tale of miscommunication, vaulting ambition and the joyous discoveries that can happen when everything goes wrong.” Indeed.
So what ever happened to Gerhard? Online sources suggest that he was deported back to Germany for postal fraud which is sort of hilarious, only to be detained by the German government for having cooperated with the British, which is more on the perilous side. Apparently Gerhard had pitched his rocket mail idea to the Germans before his Hebridean experiment. He joined the Luftwaffe, was badly wounded in 1944, and ended up working as a furniture dealer in West Germany and thus his wish to bring the world together ultimately fizzled out just like his rocket.
The Strait of Scarp, or Caolas an ScarpMagic mushroomSheepie butts
So, after our beautiful cliffside walk, we dropped down to another impossibly white beach, Tràigh Mheilein, only accessible via this walk. Spectacularly beautiful, deserted, and seemingly stretching on into forever. Gorgeous multi-colored rounded stones were everywhere, evidence of the complicated geographical history of the island. The weather changed approximately five million times as we meandered down the beach. Rain pants off, rain pants on, sand everywhere. Rainbows, dark clouds, blue sky, wind, no wind. The beach was framed by the Strait of Scarp with distant Atlantic views on one side and green rocky hills on the other. The water constantly changed color and character along with the weather. A few quintessentially Hebridean houses sat like lonely sentinels across the water on Scarp.
After a hasty picnic lunch in a sheltered area behind some rocks, we turned away from the water and climbed up onto a ledge where a huge expanse of bright green stretched out before us. It was like stepping through a portal into another world. There was no trail per se, we just traversed its expanse like we were in the Sound of freaking Music, only with the ocean behind us and below and mountains and lochs ahead. Each of us exclaimed something along the lines of holy crap how is this a place that exists. The well-traveled Liam shared that it was his favorite spot, maybe in the world.
Could only convince one of our crew to do the traditional model pose with me.Liam in his favorite place.
We walked along this loch, marveling at the lonely white house on the other side (a deer stalking cottage leased by a nearby estate) when suddenly a green field studded with white rocks opened before us – and hundreds of bunnies scampered in a flurry, disappearing down into their warrens. It was – ridiculously magical. Of course I couldn’t snap a photo in time, but they were just here:
We walked a bit farther and then spotted a huge herd of red deer up on the ridge – and they kept a steady eye on us as we climbed up toward them, finally dispersing as we grew too close.
The views back over the loch and bunnyville were fab.
As we crested the ridge and headed back to the sea a juvenile sea eagle soared overhead, tracing giant, graceful circles in the sky. While commonly referred to sea eagles, they are officially called white tailed eagles. They boast a seven foot wing span and are the largest bird of prey in UK. They almost became extinct in early 20th century, mostly due to death-by-landowner. These were wealthy owners of vast estates who were protecting their game birds, which they keep stocked for shooting parties of hunter types who have paid massive sums for the experience. I mean seriously this is not at all vital or even interesting and why is this even a debate. Anyway thanks to modern conservation efforts and breeding programs in Scotland and England, the sea eagles have been making a comeback. Unfortunately they remain endangered as gamekeepers who work on these aforementioned estates are still poisoning them. In response, the Scottish government has pulled shooting licenses in the hope that this would reduce these crimes. Unfortunately cases are hard to prove unless one finds the bird and runs a tox screen within a certain period of time and can pinpoint the culprits. Surely, the majestic sea eagles must prevail over such waste and stupidity.
A few snaps from our walk down the ridge:
We had a lovely afternoon tea on Hùisinis beach before hopping back in the van. As we drove away we passed the coos again and Liam obligingly stopped in the middle of the road so we could bid them a fond adieu. One of them walked over to my window in greeting, politely requesting a head scratch, which I gladly obliged. His/her horns banged against the side of the van, so apologies to Wilderness Scotland.
We finished our day by hiking down Glen Meavaig, a wildlife refuge featuring the North Harris Eagle Observatory, built to provide a sheltered spot for viewing a resident nesting pair of golden eagles. Sadly we did not see them. Apparently the Universe felt that we had seen enough magical creatures for one day.
I’ll leave you with a very cool fact about North Harris. It was purchased by the community in 2003, and its 25,900 acres make up one of the largest community owned estates in Scotland. The North Harris Trust, which manages the land on behalf of the community, has an open membership to all residents and is run by a board of locally elected volunteer directors. Very cool.
Our last full day in the Outer Hebrides dawned with a bittersweet tinge. Wind-swept, isolated and bewitching Harris had started to seep into my bones and I felt strangely reluctant to leave. We had one more walk before us, followed by a drive down the Golden Road and a fancy farewell dinner.
We headed to the southwestern corner of Harris, our destination an uninhabited peninsula connected to the rest of the island via a sandy machair in between two bays. A machair (pronounced “mach’ – like loch – er”) is fertile, well-drained grassland found in Scotland and Ireland which is formed by sand being blown over peat. It creates a unique habitat with diverse bird life and blankets of meadow flowers in early summer. However, with winter approaching, the flowers and birdies were long gone.
A double rainbow arched over the road on our drive there.
We parked the van next to a charming and quirky cafe snuggled in the middle of nowhere called Temple Harris, featuring a spectacular array of pastries and killer views over a sandy bay ringed with hills. We strolled down a road toward the westernmost summit of Harris and our climb of the day, Ceopabhal (pronounced Chaipaval – p.s., sorry for all these pronunciation tips but I want you to be the hit of your next cocktail party).
We walked across the machair in capriciously changing weather and made our way through a herd of colorful shaggy cows that appeared to be Highland Cattle/Belted Galloway crosses, which I am totally here for. Fighting our way through a sudden gusty squall, we crested a hill and Traig na Cleavag magically came into view, yet another pristine and deserted Harris beach. This one was guarded by an ancient sentinel – a ruined medieval chapel known as Rubh’ an Teampaill aka Northton Temple. It was built on the site where an Iron Age broch once stood, on land which has been continuously occupied since the Mesolithic era (as this particular era often comes up at cocktail parties, along with Gaelic pronunciation opportunities, a wee reminder this was 10,000 to 8,000 BCE, so very much olden times, or dare I say, days of yore).
Ceopabhal loomed over us for the entirety of our walk, and I eyed the hill with a slight amount of trepidation, mostly because I made the mistake of reading about it in advance on the Walkhighlands website (the bible of Scottish hillwalking).
The climb featured a 1,200 foot elevation gain over 6/10 of a mile. This is indisputably a bit on the steepish side, in fact Walkhighlands mentioned in passing that a “great amount of effort” was necessary to reach its summit. Also Liam made us stop and eat a protein bar just before the steep bit for “fortification.” Yikes. So once again the ascent was trail-free – we just zig-zagged our way up through clumps of heather. My main pro tip would be to make sure you lean forward into the hill. At least it was so rainy and windy that trying not to get blown off the trail to our deaths (only slightly exaggerating) served as an excellent distraction from the aggressive angle of the climb.
At the summit (yay!), the views were 360 degrees (largely into fantastic storms, but you could see the mountains of Skye). The wind had truly become a biblical sort of tempest, known in these parts as “blowing a hoolie,” although I did valiantly manage a few snaps and a cairn photo.
We walked to the lee side of the hill, mercifully sheltered from the hoolie, and sat in some soft comfy moss to enjoy a picnic looking out over a gorgeous bay.
The fine folks at Walkhighlands.com recommended retracing one’s steps back down the hill. My knees were entirely dreading this prospect because going up a steep slope is one thing, going down (while being blown about by a hoolie) is an entirely different situation. This advice was based on their view that walking down the hill on its lee side would take one through “deep heather” and thus should be avoided. Mercifully, Liam had other ideas. We indeed took the more gradual route toward the bay, winding our way through heather and floating across fluffy, deep mounds of sweet, sweet sphagnum moss. Let me tell you it was delightful. Imagine traipsing down a hill on living, breathing sponges of memory foam. That’s what it was like. I put my hiking sticks away.
Speaking of moss, you can’t go to Scotland without considering peat. No seriously. Peat is formed from plant material throughout the ages that does not fully decompose, and sphagnum moss is one of its main ingredients. Peatlands cover about 20% of Scotland and yet 80% has been degraded over time. It has been hacked away and drained since the 1800s to make room for agriculture. For centuries it has also been cut, dried, and used in fireplaces for heating homes. It still is.
Peat harvesting on Harris.
Peatlands are among the most carbon-rich ecosystems on Earth and have a net cooling effect on climate. Healthy peatlands can also reduce flood risk by slowing the flow of water from the uplands. If you hold a small handful of sphagnum moss and give it a squeeze, enough water will run out to fill a juice glass. Without peat, one is left with completely nonabsorbent bedrock which isn’t great in a country where it is usually raining. Peatlands also promote biodiversity by providing vital habitat for birds, insects and plants. Peat bogs are sometimes referred to as the rainforests of the UK.
A few more cool things about peat. You may have seen an episode of the BBC mystery Shetland where a decades-old body was found perfectly preserved in a peat bog and wondered why. (Fun fact: There have been only two murders in Shetland over the last 50 years, rather than the 1-2 murders per week as depicted in the show. This aside provides an excuse for a Douglas Henshall call out for a lot of reasons).
Doug Henshall as Jimmy Perez in Shetland.
The explanation for peat’s ability to preserve (ahem) organic matter is this. As a bog grows, and new peat replaces old peat, the older material underneath rots and releases humic acid, also known as bog acid, with pH levels similar to vinegar. Not to put too fine a point on it, but bog acid preserves human bodies in the same way fruit is preserved by pickling. And of course not just humans – a wooly mammoth was once discovered buried in peat that still had its fur and food in its mouth.
Peat also creates and stores iodine. The iodine causes sphagnum moss to look very yellow and even red when it’s waterlogged. This is why many Scottish rivers appear golden in color – it’s not tea, or (sadly) whisky – it’s iodine-laced runoff. Also, iodine’s antiseptic properties mean that sphagnum moss acts as a water filtration system so in a pinch you can use water squeezed from moss for hydration – and even more interesting, it was used to pack wounds during wartime since it’s both sterile and absorbent.
Gorgeous saturated sphagnum moss
Most crucially from a climate change perspective, Scotland’s peatlands store 16 million tonnes of carbon (one tonne is 9% larger than a metric ton) and possibly shouldn’t be released into the atmosphere at this particular juncture. Draining water away from peat bogs to support agriculture causes the peat to dry, resulting in the vegetation decomposing much faster – and the release of carbon. Similarly, burning peat has the potential to release hundreds of years of stored carbon back into the atmosphere. Ultimately it’s quite beneficial to have large land masses that actually capture and store carbon.
I know what you are thinking – what about (gulp) whisky? Much of Scotland’s whisky is made from sprouted barley that has been dried by peat fire. It imparts a lovely campfire vibe to the golden liquid which causes people to either fall in love or cough with watering eyes and an alarmed expression. An iconic flavor either way, especially with Islay whiskies. As it turns out, whisky accounts for only about 1% of the UK’s peat use and as you can imagine defending the cultural significance of Scotland’s whisky-making tradition has been the central pillar of the industry’s case during the government’s development of its peat policy. Distilleries have pledged to make peat use more sustainable, although given its glacial pace of regeneration (1mm a year) this is a matter of debate. Distilleries are also experimenting with using different botanicals to light on fire for barley drying. Glenmorangie has just released a “Taste of the Forest” expression where they used pine, juniper, woodland moss and eucalyptus as fuel.
The good news is that peatland restoration and preservation is very very big in the UK and heroic efforts are underway to preserve and increase the resource – with some measurable success. So fingers crossed.
Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.
So let’s rejoin our merry band of descending walkers as they bounce down Ceopabhal on cushions of sphagnum moss. Before I share a few photos, after hearing all this peat talk from Liam we were sensitive about trodding on this precious resource, but he assured us that it quite literally bounces right back due to its buoyant density. Phew.
Upon our triumphant return to the van, we snagged a coffee and pastry (and a wee bit of shopping) at Temple Harris. Everyone leaves their packs outside on the wooden bench without worry of misadventure.
Duly fortified, we struck off down the Golden Road, a spectacularly winding single track route along Harris’s rocky east coast. It’s widely assumed it got its name due to its eye-wateringly spendy construction cost. After Liam cheerfully told us that if anyone was going to barf in the van, this would likely be the time, he offered distraction from the terrifying prospect of public motion sickness by launching into storytelling mode. He regaled us with mystical tales of dubious provenance featuring two dangerous and wily Scottish creatures.
First on the agenda – kelpies. Typically residing in and lurking about black lochs, they take the form of a horse, appearing to unwary humans as being a helpful sort of creature. They entice travelers to ride them over the loch, seemingly a more expeditious route than walking around them. It’s a trap! Once a person mounts the horse, it gallops to the deepest end of the loch, dragging its hapless rider below the water to their death and, ultimately, consumption (yikes). This legend was used to keep children away from lochs and also provided therapy fodder for later in life.
You may have seen this gorgeous sculpture by Andy Scott. The Kelpies were installed in 2013 near Falkirk and are a ginormous 98 feet high. It’s beautifully lit at night, and even if you don’t have time to stop, the giant kelpies loom over the M9 between Edinburgh and Stirling.
Next we turned to tales of the more benign selkies. They are also water-dwelling shapeshifters, but transform between seal and human by shedding and replacing their skin. As humans, selkies are incredibly attractive, graceful, kind natured and (avert your eyes) seductive, and so humans tend to fall desperately in love with them. Selkies have also been tricked into marrying humans, usually by a nefarious person who steals and hides their seal skin, preventing them from returning to the sea. Not cool. Selkies are known for their benevolence, saving the lives of children or fishermen who have fallen into the sea.
There you have it. Keep up your guard if you visit Scotland – as these mythical beings pose more danger than any other resident creatures other than – dreaded midges.
We took a break from the Golden Road at Clo Mor, the charming Harris Tweed Exhibition. I will admit to you that prior to my visit to Harris, I had presumed that Harris tweed, since it’s pretty ubiquitous, was mass-produced, probably in China. Luckily I didn’t say that out loud to anyone. In actual fact, to qualify as Harris tweed, the textile must be “handwoven by the islanders at their homes in the Outer Hebrides, finished in the Outer Hebrides, and made from pure virgin wool dyed and spun in the Outer Hebrides,” according to an actual Act of Parliament. Approximately 400 islanders were working in this industry as of late 2017, and you can visit them in their home, see their looms and watch them work. Consider my eyes opened.
We next stopped at Hebrides People Visitors Center in Northton, a genealogical resource for folks researching their ancestry that tells the history of the people and landscapes of Harris and the Western Isles. Our last stop on the Golden Road was St. Clemens, a medieval church founded by Alasdair MacLeod, 8th chief of Clan MacLeod. He died in 1547, and his tomb is in the church, along with a passle of other ancient MacLeods. One wonders where the 1st – 7th MacLeod clan chiefs are buried.
My favorite peeps – sisters Victoria and Margaret
Our day ended in grand style with dinner at Flavour, an intimate restaurant on Harris with one seating and a chef, Chris Loye, who talked us through every beautiful and scrumptious dish on his tasting menu. That night each dish incorporated, with pride, the newly released Heurach whisky from Harris Distillery. A woman from the distillery lovingly shared its story at the conclusion of our meal. She poured everyone a complimentary dram, clocking with a wry smile that I had been accidentally drinking a Talisker (from Skye). Dang. As it turns out, she had been sitting at the table next to us with a couple who were right out of central casting for a show about a boring and very very rich English couple with plummy accents and unfortunate and ostentatious sartorial taste. I only wish I had been able to photograph the man’s pointy and aggressively shiny brown shoes. We decided he was probably an investor in the distillery and so may be forgiven for his wardrobe choices.
Chris telling us All The Things about each course. He and his wife spent four years on the road traveling to more than 30 countries learning about food. Back in Scotland, they started with a pop-up restaurant in their home and catering private dinners, finally securing a lease for this restaurant from the North Harris Trust. They built it during the pandemic and it opened in 2021. Now they are written up all over the place. They have Michelin dreams and I wouldn’t doubt it for a second.The fabulous kitchen staff and obviously the dude busting me on the left is the English guy. Note the tight tight tight shirt which isn’t doing him any favors and I am terrible.Liam and VictoriaA little box with chocolate Heurach truffles!
My friends, we have finally arrived on the last day of our fabulous Wilderness Scotland trip. We set off toward Stornaway, on Lewis, to catch the ferry to Ullapool on the mainland. On our way we stopped at, in my humble opinion, the most magnificent stone circle in a country chocked full of them, the Calanais (Callanish) Stones. Yes, yes, yes, replicas were made of these stones and then installed on the mainland at the fictitious site of Craig Na Dun for Outlander. Needless to say, they are so much more than that. Our little merry group had them to ourselves and they did not disappoint.
The stones are installed in the shape of a cross with an inner circle. They were erected 5,000 years ago and predate Stonehenge. It is thought that they were an important place of ritual activity for at least 2,000 years and possibly a kind of astronomical observatory. They are incredibly photogenic, even in the (again) driving rain and wind.
Raining literally needles
Our last official Outer Hebrides site was Dun Carloway Broch, one of the best preserved brochs in Scotland. These mysterious Iron Age monuments exist nowhere else but here. While these circular structures are as symbolic a feature as any in the highlands, their purpose remains unknown, although it is thought that they were residential structures for fancy people.
On the ferry back to the mainland, as we sailed through calm waters surrounded by hills on various land masses, Jacq, daughter of Margaret and niece of Victoria and awesome human being, turned to me and said incredulously, “There are mountains everywhere here.” I have told so many people about that comment because – I mean it’s true, yes there are. And that is one of the crazy unique Scotland things that for some reason I had never articulated. It doesn’t matter if you are on an island, in the middle of the mainland or on a ferry – there are indeed mountains everywhere. And as a person who needs mountains – that is a plus.
As all things do, the tour at last came to an end and we all bid a fond farewell in Inverness. I snagged dinner at Hootenanny’s, listening to some live music, and spent the night in my favorite B&B in Inverness, Castleview Guest House, run by the wonderful Eleanor and her 14 year old Jack Russell, Mia. I found the place back in 2018 because Rick Steves recommended it, and Eleanor said on his visit years ago he was most enamored of her hand-written, nearly illegible guest reservation book.
Sweet Mia
I know this sounds insane but the next day I rented a car and drove back to Skye. It’s actually not that far and Skye is Skye, so maybe not insane but only slightly eccentric. I stopped at Glen Affric, another splendid nature reserve on the mainland. And, best of all, there was snow on them thar hills.
Glen Affric, along with many other reserves I had visited over the past few weeks, is one of rewilding zones of Scotland. This restoration and conservation effort had become rather an unintended but very much appreciated mantra of my trip and thankfully is a government priority. Trees and other vegetation are planted in these areas with the goal of creating a landscape that more closely resembles the Scotland of thousands of years ago, which is not the bare hills of the highlands that we are accustomed to seeing, but rather a more forested landscape providing a more diverse habitat for a greater variety of flora and fauna. For example, trees are often planted along rivers to provide shade and cool the water so salmon can thrive.
Some in the countryside advocate passionately for rewilding, others see it as an existential threat to their culture, history, and way of life. Farmers, deer stalkers, ghillies and gamekeepers are quite anxious about the impact these plans will have on their jobs. For example, Scotland is teeming with too many deer which denude the landscape – contributing to the problem – by eating foliage from the roots (as opposed to sheep whose style is more like a lawnmower) yet efforts to cull the herd have run into resistance from landowners and staff whose income is wedded to the deer stalking business.
Be that as it may, rewilding efforts are grounded in the belief that land is not primarily for generating income from sporting activities, forestry or commercial agriculture, it’s for, you know, life writ large. Creating, nurturing and protecting wild land produces the oxygen and the biodiversity we need to survive and offers solace and inspiration for our imaginations and our souls. So there.
Returning to our beautiful drive back to Skye, there was also a sprinkling of snow on the peaks surrounding Glen Shiel. No matter how old I get, there is always something magical about the first snow of the year.
Once over the Skye Bridge, I drove through Glen Sligichan, this time in gorgeous weather and so stopped for a photo of the wily Black and Red Cuillins, since as you’ll remember they were shrouded in mist and dreich the week before.
Full circle: a hooded crow on the car once again, this time in better conditions.
In Skye, I stayed in Uig, where we also stayed during the Wilderness Scotland trip, which I swear I didn’t realize in advance. I knew we were staying somewhere on Skye but no idea where. Crazy. Clearly meant to be, yeah? Anyway, I stayed at a fabulous B&B, Abhaig House, run by an even more fabulous couple, Viv and Steve, who brought me a piece of a home-baked cake every single day. The view from my room was unbelievable, and I arrived to a charcuterie board with fresh salmon prepared by my hosts for a most delectable dinner, complete with a jaw-dropping sunset view.
The next morning I woke up early and drove just a few minutes to one of Skye’s honeypots, the Fairy Glen. It’s usually crawling with ugh tourists but we are now in late October, and I arrived at sunrise so it was mine all mine. Just a crazy beautiful and singular area on the backside of the Quiraing. Geology, my friend. Geology. I mean what IS this place.
After my little walk, a delightful breakfast at Abhaig.
I then drove southwest to Glenbrittle beach, where I thought I’d head partway up the hike to Coire Laggan in the Black Cuillins. I knew I didn’t have enough time to do the entire walk, sadly. I kept going a little bit further and a little bit further still – just to that ridge there, then I’ll turn around, oh wait there’s another little bit….. And lo there came a time when I needed to pull slightly off the trail to drop trou and do a wee pee – and as looked up from my undignified squat toward the Cuillin ridge, to my horror descending walkers appeared in the distance WHO PROBABLY SAW ME and so I took that as my sign and scarpered back down to the car in giggly horror.
The black sands of Glenbrittle BeachThe Black Cuillin
The reason I didn’t have enough time is because I had booked a reservation at the chef’s kitchen table at the renowned Three Chimneys restaurant, where I had enjoyed a wonderful meal with Danielle the previous spring. It was super fun sitting in the kitchen and the only other guests were a very blonde and adorable couple from London on their honeymoon. Both lawyers! Both liberal! Brexit is terrible! Trump is terrible! Yay! A chef’s table can be risky, god knows, but we hit the jackpot and had a lively and interesting conversation for the entire meal. They were staying in the lovely rooms at the Three Chimneys, whereas I had a half hour drive back across Skye on single track roads in the pitch dark with silly sheepies snoozing like RIGHT there on the edge of the road like fuzzy doofuses. But seriously – what a great night.
The next day I caught the ferry to Raasay, a small island with 192 denizens just to the east of Skye. It’s a very short and very beautiful ferry ride.
When we disembarked I set off down a crumbly wee road toward a short hike that looked pretty cool. I did not see another car or another person.
There was a tiny parking area at the end of the road, thus:
I embarked on yet another gobsmackingly gorgeous coastal hike to the ruins of Hallaig, a clearance village, one of several cleared communities on Raasay, where the residents were forcibly evicted or encouraged to move to make way for sheep grazing on the island in the 1800s. There’s a monument along the trail that includes a poem about the ruins called “Hallaig,”by Sorley Maclean.
Back through the gloaming to Hallaig
Through the vivid speechless air,
Pouring down the steep slopes,
Their laughter misting my ear
And their beauty a glaze on my heart.
Then as the kyles go dim
And the sun sets behind Dun Cana
Love’s loaded gun will take aim.
A few photos of the ruins.
Could not resist a few smiley selfies in that sad and somber place because good god IT WAS SUNNY.
I think this walk resulted in some of the most incredible photos from my entire trip – the light, the location, the mountains, the ocean.
As you can see, this was another walk where I didn’t see another human being, which is absolutely my preference to be honest. My mom asked me to write about what it was like to hike alone in remote areas in a foreign country. The answer is that it’s awesome and makes me blissfully happy and at peace. An adventure in the best possible way because the risk level is very, very low and yet you are out in the wild! On the moors! Gazing across oceans and up mountains! So many wild coos and sheepies! And I’m not naive, I know full well that folks have often found themselves in trouble hiking in the UK, involving mountain rescue teams, helicopter evacs, injury and even death. I don’t know what to say except that the thought never crosses my mind that something bad might happen because a) I’m in Scotland and b) there’s so much joyful zen in my brain. I’m so completely present in the moment as they say, that all thoughts of worry have nowhere to grab hold. For what it’s worth, my mom doesn’t worry about me either, which is quite literally unheard of. So ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
I sat in the car for a few minutes enjoying the bag lunch of a fresh salmon salad Viv and Steve prepared, and then started the short drive back toward the ferry so I’d make it to Raasay Distillery in time for my tour. Along the way I came upon a Scottish traffic jam, but not to worry, I made it.
Opened in 2017, Raasay released its first whisky in 2020. The 2022 Scottish Whisky Awards named Rassay Distillery of the Year, and it’s a beautiful facility with drop-dead views. They released their first whisky in 2021 and their single malt combines six signature casks – maturing peated and unpeated spirit separately in ex-rye whisky, virgin Chinkapin oak and Bordeaux red wine casks. The first of this cask combination in Scotch whisky history. The exact proportions are, of course, top secret.
A lovely, sophisticated English woman with a dry wit was our tour guide. She had retired to Raasay a few years prior with her French husband and was obviously enjoying her retirement gig at the distillery. I talked with her afterward about what it was like, and how her Parisien husband was enjoying living on a remote barely populated island in the Hebrides. I shared that I was feeling a similar pull toward Scotland in general. She immediately engaged an eye-lock and encouraged me to start doing something – taking actual measurable steps toward this goal. I don’t know, I got the tingles. Message received.
So the Raasay “Hebridean” is a very very good whisky and I fell in love with the distillery and with Raasay itself. As I had enough space in my luggage to bring one bottle home, I decided this would be The Chosen One. I did a quick search on my phone – without my glasses – to make sure you couldn’t buy Raasay in Oregon. Well. When I got home I looked it up again and sure enough, found that you could acquire a bottle in two local liquor stores. Not only that but one of the liquor stores carried bottles of the single cask versions from the pleated bordeaux and rye casks. Good god. Coals to Newcastle. In retrospect, it’s almost a certainty that I misspelled Raasay as I was standing in line at the distillery on my phone with no glasses. I mean, there are a lot of “a’s” in fairness.
The view from Raasay Distillery. Literally. I can’t even.
The ferry back to Skye.
My car and I alighted from the ferry and drove to Portree where I had booked a table at Dulse & Brose, a lovely restaurant of past acquaintance. I was there a bit early and so wandered around Portree seeking a pub. The thing about shoulder season is that places are sometimes closed for the winter – rude! I finally walked along Quay Street, where the lovely painted buildings are, and found a teensy weensy pub inside the Pier Hotel. (The baby blue building below).
I sat at the bar and had a dram, eavesdropping on a hilarious conversation between a couple of older Scottish men with a fisherman vibe and a small family group from, of all places, Texas. The Texans were trying to explain to the Scots why the phrase, “bless your heart,” (which the Scots had never before heard) could, and often did, actually have a negative connotation. It’s one of those southern idioms that sound polite but are really a highly judgmental put-down. The Scots literally could not understand why we’d take something that sounded like a blessing and turn it into a smug slam. The other conversation I enjoyed was between the bartender and his girlfriend about how amazing Peaky Blinders was. Speaking of which,
Tommy Fookin’ Shelby makes the blog.
And now I think it’s high time to wrap this installment of The Wee Dram. My last full day had finally arrived, so I bid a sad farewell to Viv and Steve and the cute pups they were dog-sitting.
I then had the dumb idea of stopping by the Old Man of Storr on a gorgeous sunny day at 10:30, thinking I could just bound up the trail of the last Skye honeypot I hadn’t yet done. It was a sh*tshow. Could not believe the huge parking lot packed to the gills with humanity. Nooooooo. No thanks. KThxBai. Next time. I pulled off the road across from the bulging parking lot, grabbed a coffee and had a final wee look across to the mainland where I was headed – and said goodbye to Skye for the fourth time in my life. I also said see ya next year.
I drove through a bluebird day back to Inverness. It was honestly sort of weird seeing Scotland during a baldly sunny day. It didn’t look like itself.
My last night in Inverness I once again stayed with Eleanor and Mia, enjoying a lovely supper at the Mustard Seed. It was a gorgeous final night of my nearly month-long trip.
So, dear friend, thank you for reading this blog, for being patient with my many diversions down historical, geological, ecological, cultural, Gaelic pronunciation and whisky-related rabbit holes. I’ll just end by saying that I’m headed back next May to Glencoe (have never missed), the Pentland Hills south of Edinburgh, and……(drum roll) Shetland. And next fall I’m returning with my pal Trish, mostly to visit Arran, Islay and Jura, since our last trip we were stymied by weather, and then back to Skye where I will probably feel drawn to the ferry to sail to the Outer Hebrides again, maybe this time to the Uists.
Wee Dram of Scotland 