The Magic of Skye

Amanda Page
Jul 28, 2017 · 7 min read

I went to the Isle of Skye because I needed things to do in Scotland. My friend, Jen, mentioned the place, and I thought it sounded neat. After some time in Edinburgh, I took the train to Inverness. It was immediately clear that I packed poorly. I was freezing. I couldn’t find the budget B & B I’d booked, and I was really not feeling it at all. When I finally got to my room, I burrowed under the covers to wait for my ride to the Isle of Skye.

I did no peeking or planning beyond finding a tour company that preferred vans to buses. I didn’t look at pictures on the internet. I didn’t read online reviews of the company I paid $90 to drive me. The morning of my excursion, I walked to the Columba Hotel and met the man who would have my life in his hands on the fast and fierce Scottish highway. His name was John, and he was decked out in tartan from head to toe.

We were told no coffee or crumbs in the van, so my caffeine consumption was way too low for my comfort levels. I sat behind the driver’s seat because I get carsick and that usually helps hold off the nausea. As the eight tourists rode along in silence, John told us stories.

John himself was a story. He said he lived in a caravan overlooking Loch Ness. He said he’d been to art school at age 40. He once made a living picking asparagus near Amsterdam. On our way to Urquhart Castle, he told us the story of a Christian man who came to Scotland to convert the pagans.

“Christians didn’t have a lot of luck converting the Scottish, but he came along and a great river serpent rose from the loch. He called out, ‘Monster return!” His voice was so commanding that the serpent retreated. The pagans were so impressed, they converted on the spot.”

We were almost to the castle when John said, “If you’ll look to your right, we’ve got a little bit of America right here along Loch Ness.” Apparently, the ridge across the road from the loch is made of the same geological material as the Appalachian Mountains.

“That’s where I’m from!” I said. I’m sure everyone in the van thought I meant America. But I didn’t. I meant the foothills of those particular mountains. I started to feel something akin to affection for the Scottish landscape. Before, I felt what every traveler feels at first. I was interested. I was in awe.

The interest, awe, and affection grew as we got closer to our destination. Because John.

We stopped at the castle for coffee and a quick look around. I stood outside the gift shop and talked to John about art and life. I noticed that random strangers were taking pictures of him. He was decked out in tartan. He was an obvious photo opp. But I think it’s strange to take pictures of people without their permission. I mean, I’ve done it, too. It’s what you do when you travel. Sometimes the people are the landscape. Sometimes, a person is the attraction. After a few minutes, though, I started jumping in the shots.

There are many Scottish tourists with photos now of a man in a kilt and a plain Ohio woman with a silly grin on her face.

Before those photos, I was too cold to feel playful. By the time we got back in the van, playful was my default.

We had a long way to go. John assured us it was worth it.

“You are all in this van for a reason,” he said as we pulled back onto the road. “The Isle of Skye will clarify your life.”

He mentioned our career disappointments and romantic mishaps. He said to think of the things in our lives that could use some magic.

“There is magic on the Isle of Skye,” he said. “But it takes a little while to find its way to you. It takes about four months to manifest. In four months, I’m sure I’ll be hearing from some of you about the magical changes that happened as a result of your trip to Skye.”

The possibilities excited me. I swooned in the backseat.

We stopped again. I talked to John about writing.

I’d been writing a lot, but it wasn’t artful. It was useful content, but it wasn’t art.

“I know a house,” he said. “I just have a feeling. This won’t be your last time on the Isle of Skye.”

We made our stops: Portree, Kilt Rock, the Old Man of Storr. As we drove to the Quiraing, we passed a house on the water. It was supposed to be on the EDGE of the water. John said, “Amanda, that’s the house.” Then, he explained to the others in the van, “Amanda is going to come here and create great things.”

I looked back at the house as we passed. I could climb out the window directly into the water. I could keep a kayak outside the door. The house practically floated.

So did I.

“Did you get a feeling?” John asked.

“Yeah,” I said. But I couldn’t articulate it for the life of me.

John pointed out another house before we got to the mountain. It was a 400-year-old croft house that had been converted into a modern-day vacation home.

“Four hundred years ago, a woman could survive the Winter in a house like that. She’d bring her cow inside, which meant the place would stick to high Heaven. But it would keep both her and the cow warm. It was the only way they could both survive. And every day, she’d take a knife and bleed the cow just a little bit. She’d stir that blood into her oats. That’s how we got blood pudding. When Spring came, it would take several men to carry the cow back out of the house because it was so weak from blood loss. But it survived.”

I wondered why anyone would stay anywhere if that’s what it took to survive. Four hundred years ago, did they not think to leave? Or was there something about this place that made them stay? Women would have to be pretty tough. Then again, John said there was magic here. Maybe it was worth keeping near.

When we got to the Quiraing, all eight of us walked through sheep dung to take pictures. The landscape was epic and that’s all you could say in the moment. It was too incredible to say anything but cliches.

The other single female traveler in the van was kind enough to take a few pictures of me goofing off with the vastness behind me. We were all playful by that point, and our pictures would surely show it.

We chatted briefly about the trips we taking and why we’d come to Scotland.

“Did you need some magic in your life?” I asked.

I know I did.

And yet, I didn’t. Things in my life were going well. I worked in a job that I liked. I was writing. I was part of a vibrant arts community back home. Sure, I’d had bad dating experiences through the year, but people have those. I was grateful for what I had.

“Going on a trip like this is magic,” she said.

It was true. Going to places with epic landscapes is a type of magic. I’d done it before, but it had been a long, long time ago, and taking the trip felt like reclaiming a piece of myself I’d lost through the years. The trip itself was like a promise I was making, a promise to the future me, that I was still and would always be a woman who could travel great distance to conjure magic in her life.

I didn’t have to travel those distances, I thought. But I could. And I would.

We made one more stop on our way back to Inverness. At the base of the Cullin Mountains, I found a tiny piece of blue glass, no bigger than a nickel, shaped like my home state.

I held it up with the epic landscape in the background and took a quick picture. I traveled a long way for the magic of the Isle of Skye. But on the Isle of Skye, I was reminded of the magic of home. Home is Ohio and it’s where I stir up the plans to travel. It’s where I make everyday magic. It may not seem as epic because it doesn’t have the same vastness. It doesn’t have the same distance.

It has the same impact. It shares a common origin. Like the little bit of America that exists along Loch Ness, the magic you make is a lot like the magic you find. You might be surprised that it’s similar in source. You might be surprised by how far you have to go to recognize it. But if you can, it’s magic.

Amanda Page

Writer and writing retreat host.

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