Day 4: Skye II

I am sitting by the windowsill again the next morning. Jane is snoring, and I am watching the empty moorlands and distant hills turn gradually blue, then white and gold. We walk out to the conservatory of the Eubhal House, where a breakfast spread has been laid out beneath the glass ceilings. Dougie and his wife Anne bring us fresh pots of tea and coffee, and we help ourselves to juice, milk, and toast with homemade berry jams. We sip on our drinks while the sun rises over the island. Off in the yard behind the house, a family of red-tailed deer goes bounding up the hillside. "Ooh, look at 'em go!" Dougie yells as he brings in our plates of scrambled eggs, bacon and sausage, black pudding, grilled tomatoes, beans, and potato scones.  A bushy-tailed forest cat appears at the back door to the conservatory; he paws and paws at the glass, trying to get our attention. "Wee feller's cold this mornin'!" Dougie says with a laugh. "That's our Smokey." Jane lets Smokey in, and he saunters off to sit in the living room. After breakfast, Dougie pulls out his road map of Skye and points out places for us to see on the Trotternish Peninsula, along our driving route to our north. He is pleased that I've read about Flora MacDonald and the Bonnie Prince Charlie ("Full marks for ya, laddie! Studyin' before travelin', that's what we like to see!"). We bid him farewell for the day, and set off with our heavy jackets and hiking packs in tow.

We drive east, through the harbor town of Portree, and continue north along the east coast of Skye. Fifteen minutes later, just north of Loch Leathan, we pull off into a car park under the Storr, a hill of volcanic rock overlooking the Sound of Raasay to the east. The wind is howling furiously as we get out of the car; after several days of relatively mild if unpredictable weather, we are finally due for a full blast of the highland climes. Leaving the car park, we pass through a series of sheep gates and begin climbing a well-paved forestry track through (yet another) recently felled area. My trail guide, borrowed from Dougie's collection and perhaps a bit outdated, describes "a lovely walk through forest." Instead of this, we climb bleakly toward the mountain ridge in the distance, the barren hillside offering little protection against the strong northern winds.

At the top of the forestry track, about one mile in, we pass another sheep fence and begin climbing the stone steps up toward the Sanctuary, an area of bizarre rock formations at the foot of the Storr. The Storr itself is merely a prominent section of the Trotternish Ridge, a geologic formation that extends like a spine down the center of Skye's entire northern peninsula.  The ridge was formed by a series of massive landslips - layers of sedimentary rock tipped vertically and then toppled over by the weight of dense volcanic basalt.  Millions of years ago, a black wasteland covered by ancient lava flows;  thousands of years ago, scratched and clawed by ice; now, merely a collection of stunning landscapes, covered by yellow-brown heather and clear-cut stumps. The wind is pounding away at our exposed faces as we climb toward the most prominent basalt pinnacle - the Old Man of Storr. We pull our winter hoods over our heads and trudge upward, step by step, yelling vague, inaudible instructions to each other through the wind. In the heart of the Sanctuary, ever so slightly sheltered from the wind, we sit briefly on a ledge behind the Old Man, admiring the pinnacles and the massive slope of rockfall under the mountain. A few snowflakes zip by our noses, blowing horizontally. We elect not to continue to the summit of the Storr, where we would be even more exposed to the elements.  As we return downhill, a marvelous view opens up below us: The feathery loch and landslips to our south, and to our east, a stretch of sea separating us from the islands of Raasay and Rona. A single ray of light breaks through the clouds and shines down upon the whitecaps furiously whipping across the Sound. The wind continues to blow - and in a moment, the light is gone.

We continue driving north along A855. In the car, our faces warm up again,  which is pleasant but for the fact that my face overshoots its usual temperature. It becomes quickly apparent that I have suffered some degree of windburn, which no amount of sunscreen will remedy. I vow to keep my hood up as much as possible for the rest of the day. We next make two quick roadside stops along the eastern coast - beside the Lealt Falls, where the Lealt River plunges down a narrow gorge and toward a beach facing the Sound of Raasay; and Kilt Rock, where Loch Mealt overflows its boundary,  cascading directly into the ocean over the basalt pillars which give the rock its fashionable name. On the clifftop viewing platform beside Kilt Rock, the wind is so strong that the spray from the cataract whips back up and pelts us, and I am barely able to fire off a panoramic series without falling sideways. We quickly retreat to the car and continue on. Just past the village of Staffin, a paleontology site of some significance, we turn west onto a single-lane road that cuts across the peninsula, directly through the heart of the Trotternish Ridge. Two miles in, we climb a steep plateau and arrive at the Quiraing (from the Norse Kvi Rand , meaning "Round Fold"), a jaw-dropping section of the Trotternish landslip, home to some of the most iconic landscapes and rock formations on the Isle of Skye. We leave the car park and set off, beside other walkers, toward the rock pinnacles to our north.

The wind continues to gust from the north, bringing thick veils of cloud with it; we walk through alternating curtains of sunshine and blowing snow. As we approach the landslip, the path narrows into an almost-alpine footpath that follows the contour of the hillside, with steep slopes of sheep-dung-covered grass to either side of us. The path climbs as it approaches the Quiraing, the view opening up to the east over Staffin Bay, and back south toward a primordial green landscape of lakes and ridges. Leaving the cliff edge, we climb a scree slope up the escarpment, cutting between two basalt rock formations - the Needle and the Prison. The weather is clear now, and we sit there for awhile on the grass in front of the Needle, watching the light, airy clouds zip overhead. On our way back, we detour around the edge of the Prison; the stiff wind and the slippery, wet grass make for some close calls on the cliff-side.

Back at the car, we munch on sandwiches and tangerines before resuming a westward route across the peninsula. At Uig, we descend the escarpment and turn left on the A87. Just south of town, we take a detour east down a country road and, 2 miles in,  arrive at a makeshift car park beside a farm shed. Leaving the car, we stroll down the road into Fairy Glen, a strange and mystical-looking valley filled with little bog ponds tucked between perfectly conical green hillocks. We walk between these little mounds of ancient lava and climb with the sheep up to Castle Ewen, an upthrust rock said to be the ruined home of the valley's fairies.  In the distance to our northeast, we can see a rectangular waterfall plunging off the sloped edge of the Trotternish Ridge. We retrace our steps toward the car park in the hills high above the glen, before running down the grassy slope and jumping over a ditch to rejoin the road.

Leaving the valley and continuing south from Uig, we complete our loop of the Trotternish Peninsula and follow the highway into Portree. We find a parking spot in the center of town and, after stopping by the Portree Co-Op to refresh our sandwich and pastry supply, we spend the rest of the afternoon shopping for souvenirs (Jane buys postcards and a box of local chocolate; I buy a magnet to add to our collection on the fridge). Portree is a charming little seaside town, its colorful houses and storefronts tucked beside a little bay facing the Sound of Raasay. We walk around the quay and watch the fishing boats come in from the harbor, before grabbing a dinner of fresh seafood at Sea Breezes, where we take the last unreserved table. We return to the Eubhal House by early evening, both thankful to be getting a full night's rest after several busy days of walking.

Day 5: Skye III

"Jon, it's snowing." Jane wakes me the next morning and points out the window. A late April storm has blown in off the North Atlantic overnight, and the moorland is covered in white. Through the billowing weather, I can barely see the gravel track leading beyond Dougie's yard down toward the highway. We get dressed and head out into the conservatory. I keep the ring box in in my vest pocket, but have a pretty strong sense that I won't have much use for it today. The breakfast table in the conservatory is like a snow globe, with the flurry of white whirling all around us. Dougie comes in and apologizes - the storm has knocked out electricity to the house, and breakfast preparations have been more cumbersome than usual. He and his wife somehow nevertheless produce kettles of tea and coffee, and piping hot platters of eggs, sausage, and scones.  After we eat, Dougie again helps us run through our itinerary for the day. I tell him that we were originally planning to climb Ben Tianavaig (Norse: "Harbor at the Foot of the Hill"), a dramatic seaside mount south of Portree.  As a former policeman and search-and-rescuer, he strongly advises us against doing so (we are inclined to agree, having barely been able to stay on-path in clear daylight at Glenbrittle). He recommends some alternatives that are less palatable to Jane and me (i.e. the Talisker whiskey distillery), all the while profusely apologizing for the power outage and any inconvenience caused - though why a Scottish man should apologize to us on behalf of Scottish weather in the Scottish highlands is totally lost on me. His credit card machine being non-functional without an Internet connection, we pay for our stay in cash (Dougie kindly offers a discount on behalf of the weather) before running our belongings to the car in the snow. High beams on, we drive down the gravel track, leaving behind the Eubhal House and what was surely one of the warmest and loveliest places we've stayed in both our travels.

We head east to Portree and then turn south to Broadford, stopping briefly (in hopes of waiting out the weather) at the Aros Visitor Center to view their museum display on Scottish sea eagles. We continue to the turn-off toward Ben Tianavaig, and looking at the blanket of snow covering the mountain, we decide that we are fully satisfied by Dougie's wisdom, and we will not attempt the summit in near-whiteout conditions. The ring box sits quietly in my vest pocket, waiting for another day.

We continue south past Sligachan, following the highway as it curves around the coast, past Loch Ainort and the Red Hills of southern Skye. I hop out of the car at two points to take the photos above and below, of the environs around Loch Ainort and of Marsco (Norse "seagull hill"), one of the more prominent peaks in the area. Back in Broadford we stop again for groceries (the usual) and to fill the tank of the Mercedes for the first and only time before the airport car return (!), a testament to the diesel engine's efficiency. The weather is beginning to clear as we leave the Broadford Co-op, and from the parking lot, the water out in Broadford Bay is choppy but blue, and the grey-curtain storm clouds are far to the north. In clear skies and sunshine, we leave town and turn right on the A851 toward Armadale, bound for the southernmost tip of Skye.

The road curves and winds along the coast on the Sleat Peninsula. The morning sun is glimmering off the surface of the sea lochs when we stop roadside to visit a memorial to the Scottish soldiers who fought in the Second World War. As we pass Armadale and the ferry terminal to Mallaig on the mainland, the highway becomes a single-lane country road. We continue through the Aird of Sleat, a peaceful little crofting community in the south of Skye, nestled in the rolling hillsides beside the ocean. It is around here that Jane discovers BBC's Gaelic station on the car radio, and we are regaled by bagpipes and Highland folk music for the rest of the trip. It is a fitting soundtrack for the white, single-chimney cottages that pass us on the roadside, their backyards filled with spring lambs frolicking in the sun.

When the road ends, we park behind the village church, where an arts shop and photo gallery is open for business. Our walking gear with us, we pass through a sheep fence and head west on a gravel track, on a 3-mile route to the tip of the peninsula. Though we are standing in a patch of shimmering blue coastline, the wind remains blustery, and the dark Atlantic clouds move rapidly across the island around us. We pull our hoods over our heads and, carefully circumnavigating a family of grazing cows, we continue on toward the Point of Sleat. At the end of the gravel track, we ascend a stone scramble to our left and skirt along the edge of a farm fence, picking our paths through the mud. At length, we reach the back side of the farm, and the grassy path diverges - one going down toward a cove of crystal-white sand, and another climbing the heathery hillside, toward the end of the peninsula. We take the latter route, bound for the lighthouse on the headland.

The peat path across the headland is winding and muddy; Jane's socks are wet for the third time in as many days. We climb up and down the hillside, emerging onto a long slope with views opening southward toward the sea, the rocky Hebridean coast, and the distant isles of Eigg and Rùm. At the land's end, we can see a small white lighthouse sitting on top of the last hill. We walk down along the grass path, finding a set of concrete stairs built into the hillside; we descend these and walk toward the rock pools beside the ocean. The path narrows as we round the bend, becoming a tiny strip of land that leads to the very Point of Sleat. We climb one last heathery knoll, tiptoeing around a black-faced ram and his newborn lamb as they descend in the opposite direction. The top of this last hill is green and grassy; we run to the end, to the concrete path leading up to the beacon. From the lighthouse, we are surrounded on three sides by water, with views back toward the bulk of Skye to our north, the Scottish mainland to our east, and the outer Hebrides to our west. It is a marvelously beautiful and truly lonely place; we have not seen another person for hours. The ring box is still in my pocket, but we do not linger; the winds are still whipping around us furiously, and we are both eager to get off the headland and return to the car.

Back in the Aird churchyard, we visit the photo gallery before eating lunch in the backseat of the car. It is around 4 PM. We drive back up the peninsula, re-joining the A87 and continuing east. In the village of Kyleakin, a settlement of fishing boats, pubs, and bed-and-breakfasts on the west side of the narrows, we check into the Kings Arm Hotel, just beating the arrival of a bus full of elderly tourists. Jane takes a nap after setting her socks out to dry, and I head out to photograph sunset. Taking the car, I cross the Skye Bridge, passing the Kyleakin lighthouse and Gavin Maxwell Museum on Eilean Bàn.  On both sides of the bridge, a traffic marquee warns of snowy conditions overnight. On the other side, in Kyle of Lochalsh, I turn into a residential neighborhood near the Plock of Kyle and find parking outside of an apartment complex. A few minutes up the road and just a few concrete steps up a lovely hillside covered in golden, blooming gorse, there is a picnic area with panoramic views overlooking the bridge to the south, Kintail and the Five Sisters to the east, the sea to the north, and Skye to the west. With Jane warm and asleep across the water, I am free to sit there as long as I want. I take a timelapse series over the next hour as the sun drops toward the mountain ranges on the Isle of Skye. The stiff winds blow in a column of clouds from across the Atlantic.

Day 6: The Great Glen

The snow comes down hard through the night. I set an alarm for 5 AM to peek outside and, seeing the hotel's back lot stuffed with snow, I re-set the alarm for 8 AM. Our original itinerary called for an 8-mile hike from Morvich to the magnificent Falls of Glomach deep in the central highlands.  For a second trip in a row (after Iceland's Glymur hike), our Waterfall of the Trip has been scuttled by unusually wintry conditions. We sleep in and enjoy a sit-down breakfast in the hotel's lobby restaurant before setting off from Kyleakin around 9 AM with plans for two alternative hikes and a shorter day overall. We proceed east from Kyle of Lochalsh through Kintail, stopping briefly beside Eilean Donan Castle on the shores of Loch Duich. The snow-covered pine forests near the Kyle soon give way to a brilliantly clear morning as we pass Shiel Bridge and rejoin our inbound route from Fort William. After several days of relatively mild weather, we are destined to see some quantity of snow every day for the rest of the trip - though, quite mysteriously, it never accumulates.

Heading northwest from Kintail toward Loch Ness, we stop first at the Dundreggan Conservation Estate, a rare plot of ancient Caledonian woodland administered by Trees for Life and the Scottish National Trust.  Leaving a donation at the car park, we take a brief walk up the hillside into a grove of gnarled, thousand-year-old pine woods. In a sunny clearing among the trees and the dense, brown curls of bracken, we get a nice view of the River Moriston below us. Dramatic vistas and sweeping landscapes having come and gone without any good opportunity to do so, I finally propose to Jane here, in a quiet, ancient little forest just off the highway. She runs to turn off my camera before saying yes.

We drive next past the village of Invermoriston, bearing left on the A82, which cuts from Fort William in the southwest to Inverness in the northeast, following the great slip fault that transects Scotland, dividing its Northern Highlands from the Grampian Mountains. This fault, over time, was dug into a shallow valley by glacial ice and eventually filled by wood and lake water. That lake is now known as the famous Loch Ness, and the bed it inhabits is known as Glen More or Glen Albyn ("The Great Glen", "The Glen of Scotland"). Cruising north along the highway as it curves along the west shore of Loch Ness, we pass through the town of Drumnadrochit and bypass the famous Urquhart Castle. We stop at the Clansman Hotel near Abriachan. Jane goes into the gift shop to buy a pack of hard mint candies before we set off north of the car park, following an old coffin road up the hillside overlooking Loch Ness. After a mile of constant, steady climbing, we reach a lookout point around a switchback, and are rewarded with a single wooden bench to sit upon and enjoy a sweeping view of the lake. From here, we can see the city of Inverness to the north, and to the east of us across the lake, the smooth ascent of the glen into a broad, high plateau - the Monadliath Mountains and, beyond them, the Cairngorms. We are bound for the ski town of Aviemore, nestled in a valley within that snowy plateau.

After sitting for awhile and taking in the views, we descend the coffin road and return to our car at the Clansman Hotel. We eat a quick lunch in the backseat before continuing our northward drive, into Inverness. In the city, we find another Morrison's and re-supply our stock of sandwiches, fruit, drinks, and pastries. Jane assumes the steering wheel for her third and final time of the trip as we leave the city and navigate southeast, ascending the broad plateau into the Grampian Mountains. Farmland and riverland quickly transform into snowy hills covered in conifers, cliffsides, and jagged mountaintops. The two-lane highway is gently sloped but constantly winding. Jane plants us firmly behind a Fedex tractor trailer ("FedEx lorry! FedEx lorry!" she corrects me) and becomes its best friend -  no one can spite us for driving slowly if our front bumper is glued to an 18-wheeler. In spite of this, we make good time, and leave the highway around 3 PM to arrive at the adorable Rowan Tree Country Inn, a 3-story cottage with a snow-covered yard and a roaring fireplace. After carrying our bags to our very pink room on the top floor, Jane takes an afternoon nap while I perch by the window, watching the snow fall over the fir trees as cars come down the road one-by-one, their headlights glowing. In the evening, we head downstairs for a delightful dinner of lamb and fish.  Jane stays up watching B-rate horror movies.