Loch Logistics

Day 12 posed the greatest logistical challenge of my trip. Back on the sofa in springtime Holland, I knew I would depart from Inverness in the morning and end the day on the Isle of Skye. The options of how to do that were varied, each with its own merits and often diabolical deficits.

After much internet inquiry, I discovered that Eilean Donan Castle, the most photographed location in Scotland, lay on the bus route directly to Skye! On the other hand, the Inverness to Kyle of Lochalsh train route, touted as one of the most scenic in Scotland (and in some reviewers opinions, in the WORLD), would drop me directly at a bridge spanning the small waterway to the Isle of Skye. From there, I could catch a bus to my AirBnb for the next three evenings.

Decisions

Always one to get as many opinions as possible when faced with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I posted the question of route preference on Trip Advisor.  The one responder seemed irritated by the question and essentially said, “Just chose, you can’t lose.” Both routes passed numerous scenic lochs, and beauty was beauty apparently. I sent emails to my Inverness and Nairn hostesses asking the same question, only receiving a response from Nain. She preferred trains in general but hadn’t ridden this particular one or driven the Loch Ness route. Rick Steves preferred the bus. Lonely Planet the train. Maybe a coin toss was in order.

My husband, who would be journeying vicariously with me while putting out automotive engineering fires in the U.S., most wanted to see the Eilean Donan Castle. I decided to go there on his behalf. Plus the bus would travel along Loch Ness with a stop at the Urquhart Castle ruins on the way! Maybe I could even spot a monster lurking in the shadows nearby.

Alas, though the Urquhart Castle is one of the most popular backpacker destinations in the Highlands, it hosts no baggage check and strictly requires one to keep one’s luggage on-hand at all times during a visit. Go figure. Could I hoist my mini suitcase up rampart ruins in any form of a happy state? And remain so for the 2 hours until the next bus arrived to continue my journey? Or stay on the bus, glimpsing the ruins as I passed by, longing for more?

(I did not have time for the equally fun alternative of leaving my luggage in the Inverness train station lockers, busing it to Urquhart, visiting, backtracking to the Inverness train station and then busing it once more to the Urquhart Castle en route to Skye).

How I missed the days when it was perfectly acceptable to drop your bag, explore the surroundings at will and have a pretty good chance of returning to find it unmolested exactly where it was left. This Urquhart set-up seemed very unfriendly and annoyed me to no end. Plus I would have to leave ½ hour earlier in the morning to catch the required first bus, with a special early breakfast request.

No. Instead I contrived a convoluted path taking me from the world’s most scenic train’s terminus via taxi to the Eilean Donan Castle and then retracing my path via bus to the Isle of Skye bridge and to my end destination beyond. Much simpler. Right?

The Journey Begins

My morning meal actually began the evening before with this checklist:

Apparently, the hostess was weary of tossing out untouched haggis and black pudding. Hence, the “cross out” instructions. I initially considered the Full Scottish Breakfast with a few pen strikes, but decided on a safer bet with the scrambled eggs and smoked salmon. I still remember trying to choke down the steak and kidney pie I ordered as a 22-year-old on a Dublin lunch interview. When ordering, it had never occured to me that the kidneys referenced on the menu weren’t of the bean variety. In this case, I had a pretty good idea of what body parts went into haggis and black pudding. No deal.

Since I didn’t have to forgo delectibles to also partake of porridge, I added on the “specialty porridge with a dash of Highland whiskey and honey.” Why the heck not?

And thank goodness I did! When the barman at the Edradour distillery said that one of his Scotch spirits would be great on cornflakes, he apparently never considered pouring a little in his porridge. The dull, pasty substance came alive on my tongue. I think even my husband would enjoy this. I will have to give it a try back home.

The rest of the meal and the view were delightful. I stayed just the right amount of time. I had a sense of experiencing what I came for with a little lingering desire to come back for more.

The Train

My journey to the station was uneventful. My mini-suitcase and I traversed the many steps of the Market Brae circuit with no problem. I entered the station, secured a tea and scone (no counting on that tea trolley!), and found a four-top table to myself on the right side of the train.

Low and behold, down the aisle came Rosemary and her crew! It was nice to see some familiar faces. That is, until they all started cramming in at my table, filched my backpack from the seat next to me and hoisted it into the overhead rack. What?

Looking around, I noted that the once empty railcar had filled up quite a bit. Rosemary’s sister was of the larger variety, and I decided I wasn’t willing to be knee to knee with her for the two hour “World’s Greatest” train journey I had struggled so much to plan. I excused myself in an attempt to find another table with some leg room.

A few steps away, a solo blond woman studiously fixated on her laptop, avoiding eye contact with any potential tablemates. Nonetheless, I was headed towards her when a call from behind stalled my progress. Rosemary’s compatriots summoned me back as they moved to a two-seater across the aisle, leaving my table and Rosemary to myself. I felt somewhat rude, but not ungrateful.

The next two hours were truly lovely. In between stories and lovely lochs, there was a stop at a station for quite some time. Across the tracks, tour buses lined the parking lot and many a senior citizen crouched in front of a tripod awaiting . . . something.

Finally, an extremely tardy Royal Scotsman pulled in. Looking into the windows of this luxury overnight train, I noted the smiles on the passenger’s faces. In one car, several sat at white table-clothed tables sipping tea from dainty china cups.

Rosemary’s brother-in-law became very agitated. He exclaimed over the fame of this conveyance. Tapping some words into his phone, he claimed that it cost $1000 a day per person for a berth. In my own later googling, I found that a mere five day journey did indeed rack up a hefty 5500 POUND tab. That’s over $7500 for us Yanks. No wonder so many were photographing it — not too many would ever set foot on it, myself included. Though I certainly wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to do so.

The train cleared the station, and the paparazzi departed. With the tracks unobstructed ahead, our common carriage continued its journey skimming loch shores of astonishing nature.

As we neared Kyle of Lochalsh station, I thanked Rosemary for her company and was happy to share my email address. I wish I had obtained hers, as I never did receive an electronic missive from my new friend.I have to note and appreciate that I sat across from a Jehovah’s Witness for over 7 hours, and she didn’t mention this fact until we were almost in the station. As a new mother in Birmingham, Alabama, many a newborn nap was interrupted by banging on our front door by those determined to educate my poor, tired soul. In this case, only pleasant conversation and exclamations over a momentous experience were exchanged, and I was grateful. I hope that Rosemary and her crew had a lovely rest of their holiday and have many more to come.

The Taxi

The platform was crowded, but I had no problem locating my driver. He was a good-natured if somewhat cliche version of a kindly Scottish gent of an earlier generation topped off with a tartan wool cap. I mentioned the crowd and he gaffawed – “Tis nothin’ – in August the whole of Italy come trundling up in tour buses. Take over the Highlands.”

He stowed my mini bag in the back of his van, and I climbed into the front seat beside him. I couldn’t resist snapping a quick photo of the sign taped to his dashboard:

Skye surely would be an interesting place.

The Castle

Eilean Donan Castle was a mere 15 minute journey ahead. My desire to see it was mixed. Part of me felt that I had gotten my ancient fortress fix – I’d so enjoyed my visits to the Blair and Cawdor aristocratic alcazars that I didn’t want to dilute my castle contentedness with yet another visit. That and the fact that, well, the Eilean Donan stronghold wasn’t exactly authentic. The castle was rebuilt in the early 1900’s by the head of the Macrae clan who wanted to reclaim (or was it to “remake”) his family’s history.

While much research was done to recreate the edifice blown up from inside during the first, “Little,” Jacobite uprising in 1719, visiting the site was still a bit of a Disney Scottish experience. That said, I felt the need to photo document the place for my husband left back in Michigan to his job and the slacker painters.

I arrived and tipped my conductor well. The surroundings were truly spectacular, I must say. Before I began explorations of the looming towers, however, I decided to secure some sustenance. I acquired the key for the oversized plastic bin in the courtyard and added my bags to those of the few other backpacking/public transport-taking visitors.

After safely bolting the latch, I returned the key to a cashier who emphasized that only two hours storage was permitted. This was new intel to me, unmentioned in the multiple email query responses I received pre-trip. My bus would not arrive for three hours. I paused and did a quick mental shrug, deciding not to worry and to ask future forgiveness if necessary.

The castle grounds hosted a cafeteria with some delectable scents wafting through the door. Following much study and quizzing of the smiling staff, I added a steak pie to my tray next to the Highland’s sparkling water bottle. I collected tableware and ascended the steps to the loft window overlooking the castle. A primo spot if ever there was one.

Soon I was joined at my table by a kilted gent on break from tour duty. This stiff yet alert guide was showing an American family through the area and needed a good vantage point of their movements though the courtyard below. Though a bit disgusted that this clan heeded not his advice that the location was best suited to a quick photo opp (an opinion mirrored by many a guidebook and Trip Advisor post), the fellow noted that the food at this particular tourist stop was worthy and tucked into his soup and roll.

In between bites, he told me that he had retired from his post as history professor at a notable university and took to touring. This not only provided an income superior to that of a high educator, it also enhanced his own archival knowledge. Seemed like a great choice until halfway into his fourth bite, the man scowled and jumped to his feet. Through the window, the family was heading towards the exit. His hiatus was at an end. The intrepid instructor fled without a word, leaving his tray and split pea soup remains for me to dispose.

The tour guide did not bolster expectations of my impending visit. That said, I did not journey to this locale to miss experiencing what there was to experience.

First of all, there is good reason why Eilean Donan Castle is the most photographed location in Scotland:

Second of all, authentic edifice or not, the history of the area as told by the tourist website and displays within the entrance of the castle is somewhat interesting. The castle stands on an island at the confluence of three lochs: Loch Long, Loch Duich, and Loch Alsh. This isle served as a humble religious sanctuary of sorts for a 6th century Irish bishop named . . . Donan. Later, it acted as a base to protect the locals from the invading Vikings who controlled and settled much of northern Scotland and its western islands between the 9th and 13th centuries. After that, the area became an independent “Sea Kingdom” ruled by the Lord of the Isles. The power of the feuding clans was measured by the number of men and seafaring vessels at their disposal. This history played out in my mind as I wandered to an opening in a stone wall and settled in to admire the loch view before me.

Until I was shuffled aside by a teenager wielding a modern selfie stick:

A brief tour of the remainder of the castle yielded little more of interest. I did discover that the original walls were 14 feet thick in some areas (which explained why it was necessary to blow it up from the inside). Staircases wound to show photographically forbidden areas where the Macrae family lodged during 1950’s visits and to views of charming overgrown keeps below. The overall feeling was that the reconstructed castle was trying too hard to convince me of its merit. And without the wit of the Duke of Cawdor’s memoirs. I’d had enough.

With over an hour until my scheduled bus’ arrival, I skirted the castle to photograph it in all its possible glory. A besmudged bagpiping girl forlornly puffed in the parking lot, her eerie music wafting over the waters beyond. I briefly worried that she’d been abandoned or was controlled by some unscrupulous gypsies. Then a uniformed local nodded at her, and I happily deposited a coin on top of her bag with the surety that all was well.

The guard/ticket taker manning the bridge to the castle had told me of a nice walk along one of the lochs. I decided to stretch my legs and see if I could find a nice tea or scone along the way. Alas, it was not to be. I did get a nice view of the lochs though.

Onward

Satiated by the views of the day, my weary brain was able to absorb few scattered memories of the remaining journey to Skye. The realization that buses were not conducive to typing on a ipad mini bouncing on one’s lap, trying the “best shrimp sandwich in the world” at the ancient shop guarding the bridge to the island, winding through Skye countryside best documented during the following day’s super tour, and navigating my way through the streets of Portree to my unmanned AirBnB. Here, I located my tiny room and duly collapsed on the narrow bed, ate a granola bar, and drifted off to sleep at 7 p.m.