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

After a rather unwilling departure from Edinburgh, I travelled further north and arrived at the town (ahem, I mean city) of Inverness late afternoon. It was colder and fresher – green mountains a stone’s throw away from the main street across the River Ness which ran fresh and clear over a pebbly bottom.

I spent a day not doing very much except walking – up along the river through the bridges connecting the Ness Islands to the other side of the river, walking on through St Andrew’s Cathedral and beside Inverness Castle. The highlands were stunning, just that little bit more Scottish than Edinburgh, with the Scots flag flying proud and not a Union Jack in sight.

I joined a small bus day tour, which was hands-down the best day of travelling I have had on my almost-five-month long trip, to date. I sat down afterward and tried to figure out how to explain why, but decided it must be like childbirth – I could describe every detail of the mountains, which looked as though God Himself had looked down on the crags, black as night, and decided to sprinkle on green for decoration; could describe the beauty of the sun sparkling on the Loch’s, the castles and red deer, and the very highland tour guide with his gorgeous kilt and not a sentence spoken withouth a wink, an ‘Och’, or an ‘Aye’ – but you know, it just wouldn’t do it justice unless you expereinced it yourself.

We started at the battlefield of Culloden, where the Jacobites (mostly Highland Catholics) fought against the English (mostly, um, English Protestants) in 1746 – the Scots taking a crushing blow, the last of many which would affect their way of life, and their pride, to this day. We parked on the field a long way from the visitors centre (‘Och,’ said our tour guide, ‘The visitors centre is placed on the side of the victorious English. I always arrive on the side of the valiant losers. You start watching Scottish football and you get used to losing after a while, aye?’) and spent some time on the field, looking at the clan markers and British graves that holds thousands of bodies from that bloody battle.

With a few scenic stops in between, we then stopped at Loch Ness, home of Nessie the monster, and of an old Englishman who has set up his caravan by the river and spends his days trying to solve the mystery of Loch Ness (‘Ach, he just likes the old ladies bringin’ ‘im tea’). Though we didn’t see Miss Nessie, the secery alone was well worth the visit. Tragically the self-proclaimed ‘monster-hunter’ in the caravan hasn’t spotted her either, though lots of locals have. Allegedly. I’m a believer.

The day was filled with stories of the highland clans, of fairies and the ‘good people’, of battles and fishermen, of mountains and Lochs – with a good dose of dry Scottish humour thrown in (‘You part of the MacGregor clan way back then, aye?’ The guide said to me. ‘Cheeky buggars, always geting in trouble and dissapearing right when it suits them, and never getting caught. Everyone else was fighting at Culloden and those boys were up north on a secret mission to do with the gold sent from France. They were no fools then, aye?’ I kind of rolled my eyes with a ‘That’d be right’).

We saw small villages and magnificent waterfalls, bridges still standing after 350 years, and mountains and valeys with not a living soul in sight. By the end of the day, I was waiting for the guide to stand up and say ‘So, who wants to marry me and live in the highland mountains and never see a city ever again?’ so I could stand up and scream ‘ME!!!!’ so loudly that everyone would think we were being attacked by highland goats and run for their lives, and I would never, ever, have to leave.

Sadly, this didn’t happen, and we head back to Inverness, my only comfort being that I still had a week and a half in Scotland. And that Harry Potter was being released tomorrow. I guess highland mountains don’t have bookshops, hey. Maybe best I stay single for a while.

-Sarah

PS The tour guide was gorgeous. Just to make that clear, in case you thought the mountains and fresh air, Scottish accent and kilt had affected my taste, aye?

They say you can tell the Scots from the tourists, because the Scots don’t wear jackets or carry umbrellas (in summer, at least), which I suppose is sensible, in the space of half an hour I took my jacket off and put it on at least 5 times, and the umbrella up and down about the same.

I don’t mean to be discussing such insanely boring topics such as the weather – but it was amazing, to me in any case, that it could be sunny and warm one minute, and freezing cold and raining the next. Repeat steps one and two over three days and even I considered throwing my umbrella into the river (weak? Definitely).

I only just made my train, doe to some prolonged farewells of the friends that was worth the run, and arrived late, following engine troubles the whole way. As friendly as the Brits always are, the driver would call out ‘This train currently has engine failures!So we will be travelling at a more comfortable pace today ladies and gents!’ To which I nervously twitched and wanted to scream ‘IF THE BLOODY ENGINE’S FAILED WHY ARE WE STILL MOVING!’ Luckily the brakes worked fine and I slept well after a busy weekend.

I woke early the next morning and could have sworn I was walking through clouds, so heaby was the mist, with light rain every now and again. It added an eerie atmosphere to the blackened stone buildings, old churches and cobblestone streets, so that if all the cars had dissappeared and been replaced with horses and carriages, I wouldn’t have batted an eye.

I made my way up to Edinburgh Castle, used as a fort by the English Redcoats during the Jacobite uprising (more on that later) and paid my £12 (ouch) to climb amongst the turrets overlooking the city. Except I couldn’t bloody see anything except grey fog past my nose could I. Luckily the castle was amazing without the view, and there were servaral museums incorporated into the castle that I ducked into when the cold got too much (weak? Definitely).

I walked down the ‘Royal Mile’, the main street in Old Town, all the wayto Holyrood House, which is the Queen’s official residence when in Scotland. Though it is a modern castle still in use, the anicent Abbey at the rear of the building and the historical remnants of Kings and Queen’s long passed made for a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon.

The next couple of days were spent walking around the streets of Old Town, and wonddow shopping in the malls of the New Town (the Edinburians, bless their hearts, have discovered the art of putting all their shops under one roof with air conditioning, and calling it a mall. The rest of Europe are still selling umbrellas).

I made a visit to the port of Leith, just outside of town, to visit the Britannia – the previous Royal shop decomissioned in about 1985 I think. The tour took us around the shop to get a feel for the luxury that Royals are used to, and displayed personal photographs of various members of the Royal Family around the country-home style suites.

After a final walk along the banks of the river the next morning, I boarded a train to head up to the capital of the rugged highlands – Inverness.

-Sarah