Isle of Skye: Day One
Eilean Donan
I tug a half-empty suitcase to the Stirling Student Union, chest pounding with anticipation. It’s a Friday morning; students walk to classes I should also attend. This weekend will be a journey I’ve waited to take for two years. My flatmate and I booked the tour to the Scottish Highlands over the summer, long before we met and realized what wonderful travel buddies we would find in each other.
This bus arrives on time, unlike my last tour. I sit in one of the few empty seats beside a grad student from the University of Glasgow. She’s American and so are her friends, but many students on the bus are from countries such as Germany, Austria, France, and Spain. Our route is the same as the one to Glenfinnan, so I feel no shame ignoring the scenery and conversing with the grad students. We teach each other Scottish and Glaswegian slang, smile at the Highland Coos (Cows), and search through the itinerary until we reach the first stop: Glen Coe.
This location is different from the Skyfall site and, in my opinion, grander. The wind bites and the rain mists my face, but the heavy coat I wear keeps me cozy. I walk around the edge of the highway, trying to comprehend the vastness of the range. Shadows etch temporary darkness across the cliffs, but as the sun peeks through the clouds I watch the rocks and rivers glow vibrantly. Their magic holds me in awe as we drive through the small town of Glencoe, a villa of white houses and blue lochs.
Time floats and we reach Eilean Donan Castle before I fall asleep. This site, a 13th century fortress created for defense, is now privately owned by the Macrae family. The castle has withstood Viking raids as well as the Jacobite uprisings. Although I’ve seen photographs and read posts about Eilean Donan for months, I was clueless as to how I could make it here. When I step off the bus and the tour guide hands me a ticket to walk inside, excitement silences me.
The interior is richly decorated and blossoms with colorful decorations, enormous portraits, grand fireplaces, and quaint windows. Clippings of original clan Macrae plaidwork hang in picture frames. Displayed on table are a range of artifacts, from hair clippings to century-old letters to medallions to weapons. Despite Eilean Donan’s small exterior, the castle is laden with spiral staircases, enclosed hallways, warmly lit bedrooms, and traditional halls.
To boost my energy for the rest of the day, I stop inside the local cafe and grab a warm cappuccino and traditional Scottish gingerbread. It feels surreal, enjoying the treat beside the castle, conversing with new friends from Canada and Germany. Maybe it is the surprise tour, or maybe it is the highland charm, but so far this castle is my favorite in Scotland.
Marsco
The tour guide for the Isle of Skye, who we pick up in Glencoe, shares several legends and tales about the scenery surrounding the Skye Bridge. We suddenly drive up the road, soar across the crystal blue sea, pass the ancient ruins of a Viking fort and roll through the mountainsides onto the isle. My breath is taken a little more every second. As we coast through the tip of the isle, the bus slows to a new stop, a white pub in the middle of the highlands. This hill, Marsco, overlooks the Cullin area of Skye; according to the guide, a man reportedly ran up and down this mountain, barefoot, in a record time of 57 minutes.
I step off the bus, stretch my muscles and walk quickly past the pub, a quaint playground, and across the highway. I meet friends at the edge of a creek; the highland hills surround us, blocking the sky with their peaks. I step into the creek; chilly water slaps my ankles, but I hop along the rocks to get the best pictures of the landscape. On my left spreads a bridge with three arches; although I’m unsure of the significance of this structure, I walk across it and take more snapshots of the beautiful highlands.
The stop is much needed; Skye is a large island, and Portree is a long way off. The guide, however, notifies us of a sudden change: the bus driver wants to return to the tip of the island, to the village where half the students will stay. The news irks me; I want to spend as many precious moments in Portree as possible. I hold my breath and pipe calming music through my headphones. I tell myself to enjoy the ride, to be thankful for the chance to gaze at the island’s gorgeous nature one more time.
Portree
A jittery bounce overtakes both legs. Time. It ticks and ticks, and the sun flows down the sky, and the bus rolls through the curvy highways. In just seventeen minutes, I see the first villas of Portree across a small loch. My face aches from my grin. I’ve seen two rainbows today, and now I enter the village of vibrant colors. The moment we stop in front of our hostel, peace overtakes my spirit. I recognize the yellow building, its white lettering and shutters (after shamelessly touring the island on Google Earth), and am confident that this first hostel experience will be a nice one.
It barely is. The hostel owner, a wee old man with gaped teeth, greets us with a soft voice and kind smile; a character similar to the jolly innkeepers from Disney movies like Frozen or Tangled. Once I learn about the hostel, however, I discover my assigned room has NO LOCKS. My bed is next to a stout, intimidating woman of either German or Scandinavian nationality. Another woman keeps me awake at night; despite the darkness (the Scandinavian woman insists the lights go out at exactly 10:00 pm) or evidence that the entire room tries to go to sleep, she spends what feels like hours getting ready for bed. Unzip the suitcase. Spray perfume. Chug water. Repeat.
For obvious reasons, I spend as little time as possible in this tiny hostel. My friends and I gather the courage to explore town — there truly is not much to this village besides local pubs, sea ports, homes, and tourist shops. At dinnertime, as we search for a restaurant, my flatmate stops and squeals with delight. She points to the mountains. I pull out my phone and try to capture the perfect, pink sunset.
Of course, the image does not do the natural wonder justice. But the dream of watching a pink sunset in the village I wanted most to visit becomes a sudden reality. While the sky grows darker, I direct us to a local restaurant, a cozy building with fairy lights hanging down the windows and warm colors in the decorations. It is here that I order my first truly British meal of fish and chips.
I return to the hostel for peace of mind. Discovering none of my belongings are tampered with, I set up my bed and beg my flatmate to go back out with me. I want to see the harbor. I want to walk as many streets in this town as possible. We decide to go on a hunt for ice cream, but at 9:00 pm, most restaurants are closed for the night. We find the local Co-Op and settle for a small container from the grocery store. I take my time returning, walking up a little hill past a church, finding the street shops I want to visit in the morning. Best of all, I find the spot that has called my name since I saw its photograph — the harbor side with rainbow buildings.
I’m desperate to visit the street. Now is too dark, but I make plans to watch the sunrise and grab breakfast in the village in the morning. Will I make it? Not sure.
My flatmate and I grab spoons for the ice cream. The hostel kitchen is expansive, filled with people from a list of countries, and I feel uncomfortable standing in the midst of their cooking and dining and cleaning. So we leave the warm kitchen and enter a corridor with windows, where we sit and talk until exhaustion overtakes us.
From the castle tour to the magical mountaintops to the island lochs, I go to bed overjoyed. I made it. I’m going to sleep, and when I wake up I’ll be in Portree, Isle of Skye.
