Roadtrip and The Isle of Skye: We Meet the Little Folk

It's amazing how hard it is to find time to write when traveling. Almost every night you're so exhausted that all you want to do is sleep, so please forgive my tardiness in posting.

Last week we drove to Aviemore from Dunfermline. The drive was beautiful and it felt good to get out of the city for a while. The hills surrounding our wigwam were high, and speckled with a reddish purple, the heather that will begin blooming soon. Our wigwam was warm and cozy, and upon waking the next morning, the entire area around us was shrouded in a thick mist. The little stream flowing down from the mountains trickled all night as we slept, it's dark water a constant in a wilderness whose weather is unpredictable as each day, almost every hour, passes.

We made our way to Pitlochry, a tourist infested area but one I enjoyed very much. The shops on the high street were quaint and kept well. We had tea (or lunch if you want to get technical) at a place called "Hettie's" where I had only half of the biggest scone (pronounced 'scon') I've ever seen. It really was glorious with the strawberry jam and cream. I bought some Harris Tweed, a very Scottish company in a small shop that sold kilts and other things.

We drove on from there on our way down the west coast to Torridon, a beautiful area. Our GPS told us to turn left at one point, off a main road and onto a single lane trail that led deep into the coastal highlands. The sun was setting and both Caroline and I were nervous as to where it was taking us. We came upon four deer, standing on a boulder near the road and stopped to take their picture. They stood perfectly still for us and looked us up and down with soft brown eyes. They are truly regal beasts. Our journey finally brought us to Sheldaig, a lovely little fishing village that sits nestled in the crook of a loch which has a tree covered island in the middle. It instantly reminded me of the island where Dumbledore is buried in the Harry Potter books. I half expected to catch a glimpse of the white tomb as we explored the shore opposite.

Our bed and breakfast was absolutely perfect. It had a Gaelic name which I cannot pronounce, but the softest, loveliest beds you ever saw awaited our arrival. The staircase leading up to our room was a bit windy, with a low ceiling. I'm short so I never did bump my head. The pub next door had a few locals sharing a drink and playing pool in a fire warmed room, so we joined them and had our dinner there. I had crab cakes which were gloriously delicious. Fresh seafood might now be my favorite thing... but only when in Scotland.

The next day, we collected seashells on the shore. We saw a bright red starfish in the water which was a great surprise. He remained calm while we snapped his picture. After departing, our drive took us through winding roads, leading high up into the highlands once again. It seemed as if we would never stop climbing. The clouds kept getting closer and closer but we kept on going. There was really nothing else to do but keep going anyway. This was the Applecross road, if I remember correctly. There were several dropoffs to the side that made us nervous, but we wouldn't trade our experience for the world. The road was literally almost vertical at times, which was cause for some alarm, yet we finally made it to the highest peak. The snow lay in patches and we stood there, surveying the sheer height we had climbed. At least ten cairns had been built by other travelers and stood erect on top of large boulders, marking the end or beginning of someone else's journey, so we decided to make our own. I chose a spot far away from the others, just to be different. We stacked our rocks and were satisfied that anyone who came after us would know we had been there.

On our way down from the steep mountains, we took in the epic scenery of the ancient rocks and the bright blue lochs that lay between each range. Some had the classic white houses in half circles on their edges, but some remained wild and untouched by human hands. The road spit us out onto a main highway, and there before me was the famous Eilean Donan castle, the most photographed castle in the world. When you Google Scotland, this is the castle whose image usually appears. It is small compared to other castles, but holds fascinating history and is a beautiful sight to see. The walls are high and almost impenetrable, with a gorgeous stone bridge connecting it to the mainland. In the main rooms where the McKenzie family still live sometimes, the walls are full of portraits of the castles ancestors. One man had a toe that when you stood at any point in the room, it followed you. Our kilted tour guide had bright blue eyes, a scruffy white beard, and a laugh that made the room shake. He was amused at our questions and showed us lots of small things, like the slit in the opposite wall facing the main entrance. The slit was used to fire on enemies entering the castle uninvited. The roof we stood on had been the place where a dance was held on the eve of battle. The painting of the scene was eerie, the highlanders kicking up their legs in a dance with happy yet somber faces. They knew what awaited them when the sun begain to rise.

In the bedrooms, a painting of the funeral of Winston Churchill covered almost half of an entire wall. The guide asked us to look closely and find the mouse, which this particular artist always included in his work. Caroline found him clinging to the foot of a lord, just behind Queen Elizabeth. Even he looked sad as the funeral procession made it's way past.

The guide encouraged me to open cupboards in the bedrooms, and when I did, I found a plastic skeleton hanging there. She said "Every family has one..." and walked away smiling. Well, I guess she's right.

We continued to weave our way through the castle, up and down tiny stone staircases for another hour, exploring. The loch lay quietly around the castle as we did so, and I imagined how terrifying it would be to see your enemies approaching from a distance in a ship. Eilean Donan was an important stronghold for the Scots because it was the gateway to three other lochs nearby. If it fell, it was almost certain that the others would also fall. It has been so interesting to learn about this culture where the welfare of so many people depended on whether their king was a good man or not. This history is a bloody one. If a leader wanted someone out of their way, it was not uncommon to take that person's life, no matter who they were. Saint Margaret's great grandfather, Aethelred "the Unready or "the Ill-Advised" was forced into helping his mother brutally murder his half-brother so that Aethelred might be king. When he realized what he had done, he wept uncontrollably and his mother proceeded to beat him with a candlestick because of his ungrateful behavior. Even though times have changed, evil thoughts and intentions still rule the mind of man. We may have laws in place which require certain things of our leaders and prevent them from committing terrible crimes, yet we are still capable of things like what Aethelred and his mother did. I think that is what scares me most about learning from the history books. We haven't changed much.

But enough about murder and gore. Let's move on to the fairies, shall we?

The Isle of Skye is a magical place. It's mood changes constantly. Upon waking in the morning, the clouds may be draped across the mountains and lochs, but that can change quickly. The sun breaks through and shafts of light come down through the clouds like golden stairways, touching the green and yellow island. It is a magical place which makes me see how the locals can believe in the little folk.

As we walked down the steep path which led to the fairy pools on the western side of the island, we took in the sight of the mountain range before us. They were a beautiful sight to behold and I couldn't wait to get closer to them. The fairy pools were all manner of turquoise and blue tints, colors I have never seen in my life. You truly have to see them for yourself to understand their beauty. After spending time gazing into the clear waters, I went on ahead up the path to get a closer look at the mountains.

The one in the middle of the range was strikingly beautiful. I found a boulder to rest on and slid my backpack off and sat in silence before it. My mind instantly thought of Moses and how he must have felt when he looked up to Mount Sanai and saw the flickering flame at it's peak. The fire that burned, yet did not consume. My fragile lungs breathed in and out, in and out as I stared at the monument of God's handiwork before me. Those moments are like jewels I carry around in my pocket. Whenever I need them, I just take them out to admire their beauty and think about all of the lovely things they remind me of. Scotland has surely made an even deeper impression on me. For almost ten years I dreamed of returning, because somehow, if you can believe it, it has a voice that sings across the waters. The kind of song that snatches your breath away like an icy wind. It is an eerie place, full of legend, yet the people are as real as anything. I fell in love with them the first time I came, and now my regard and attachment to them has simply grown.