Off the Couch and On the Road

If I were writing a guidebook, I would write: The Isle of Skye is best explored by car’. In fact, somebody had written that, and I promptly ignored it just like the suggestion that I should try black pudding (blood and oats mixed and fried). No way, man.

So, with great difficulty in finding any buses, let along using them, I managed to get to the capital, Portree, and took a boat ride out to the island of Raasay and Rassay Sound to spot the local wildlife.

It was great fun - we spotted and threw fish to a massive white-tailed sea eagle, and saw puffins that looked so cute ducking above and below the water. We saw poipoises swimming close to the boat and a variety of other wildlife hidden within the barren landscape.

Or should I say, I saw all of this. The rest of the passenegers had huddled below the deck of the boat (with no windows) as soon as we ran into some rain. So the captain and I donned rain ponchos and, armed with binoculars and fresh fish, had a wonderful time in the pouring rain.

As we head back, of course being sunny and warm again, the passengers emerged to the captains wry look as he said, ‘Och, don’t know what happened there, we never get weather like that in Scotland!’. They looked like they believed him too, bless.

On the way to Broadford, I stopped off at the AROS culture and heritage centre which I was told I ‘had to go to’ by an old man on the bus that morning. A suggestion similar to eating black pudding, that I probably should have ignored, the centre consisting mainly of a movie that showed the views of the stunningly beautiful mountain ranges of Skye that were just outside the door, should anyone care to look.

The cost of the movie, £4. The cost of the bus for the day, £6. The difference between watching a TV screen and standing in the pouring rain, throwing fish to a sea eagle gliding over the mist-covered mountains of Scotland.

Well, it’s priceless, isn’t it?

-Sarah

The Isle of Skye is, actually, not an island after all. They built an ugly concrete bridge to connect the mainland to the tiny speck of pristine beauty, and the residents had the prestige of living on a wee little isle taken away from them in one fell swoop before they could even scratch their heads and ask what, exactly, tourists were.

I was staying in Broadford for two nights, and walked through the town in about two minutes. Right, I thought, now what am I going to do?

Because it was cold and raining, and because my hostel had amazing views over the bay onto the mountains, I decided to join the throng of guests in the warm living room, all immersed in Harry Potter, to finish the book off for myself.

It was interesteing that something as simple as a good story had excited the world. After all, there are good stories everywhere, millions of them, and I wondered whether it was MTV’s E News telling the public they ‘had to know what happened to Harry’, that made them pick up a book, or whether the world was sick of reality shows and too-close-to-home war epics that created the need for a little magic in their lives.

Regardless, from the raptured attention the Inverness tour guide had when he re-told ancient tales that had been passed down from generation to generation over hundreds of years, it was clear that the art of, and wisdom in, telling a good story is one that is dissappearing fast. I only hope that there won’t be day where the last thing all children do before they fall asleep is turn off the XBox - that they will fall into dreams to the ending of a good story, that they themselves may pass down from generation to generation, to put a little magic in someone else’s life.

-Sarah

See: Previous entry re Harry Potter being released. Harry Potter was released. Bought it. Read it. It rained. Again. -Sarah

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