Skye on Steroids

I did try to make my first day on the Isle of Skye easy-going and relaxed. I really did.

That said, I knew from my research that I would be hard pressed to see much of the “Best of the Highlands in Miniature” without a tour. By all accounts, the public transport was, at best, “frustrating” and, at worst, “just shite.”

Thus far on my journey, I had avoided such forced-friends-for-a-day situations as a prolonged tour would demand. On Skye, I braced myself to spend at least part of my day rushing from photo op to photo op with unknown travelers expecting total group cheeriness. I had hoped for a nice half-day viewing of some Skye highlights, but the shortest tour available began at 9:30 a.m. and ended “around” 6:30 p.m. Could I forgo seeing all things fairy? Or hiking to an area lovingly described by Lonely Planet as a “spectacular end-of-the world headland with high sea cliffs and wonderful views to the Western Isles”? 

Alas, I could not.

My AirBnB

From the beginning of my Scottish Highlands research, Skye quickly stood out as a “best of” experience. With 20 Munro peaks for avid hikers to aspire and landscapes that shift between alien to simply breathtaking, I was willing to face the summer throngs to experience this mystic land. 

When I began booking accommodations for my trip, I quickly calculated that 19 days lodging was going to add up to a pretty penny. Enter AirBnB. For the most part, a room in a house where one shared a bathroom cut the costs by at least 40% over that of a traditional B&B for a solo traveler.

My first AirBnB in Nairn had been wonderful with hosts who were both quirky characters and cheerleaders. When I arrived, there had been laundry draped on racks down the length of the entrance hall. There also had been a surprising array of personal lotions and grooming devices in the communal family bathroom. My room was welcomingly tidy and my own. Breakfast was similar to what I would enjoy at home – an egg, some fruit and toast – and served with a chat and a smile. Lounging in the family room, I visited with my hosts and their neighbors and discussed the foibles of the American health care system and Brexit. I was a temporary member of the family.

My Skye AirBnB had a completely different vibe. The previous evening, the bus deposited me in Somerled Square in the center of Portree, a small fishing village. My AirBnB host’s instructions were to “follow signs for Staffin Road, you’ll see the entrance for a small cul-de-sac of houses called Mill Park. House is 2nd on the left.” Despite scanning the historic buildings on all four sides of the square for a hint as to the whereabouts of Staffin Road, there were none. Queries to the bus driver and to locals yielded no information. Staffin Road did not seem to exist. 

I wandered up a side street. A tourist outside the neighborhood Co-op grocery overheard my questions and suggested I go to the front desk at his hotel, “They know everything.” 

I entered the establishment across the way and indeed found a very friendly receptionist – who had never heard of Mill Park. For a small town, it didn’t seem like anyone traveled outside of her immediate 10 foot vicinity. That said, after debating the potential whereabouts of number 3 Mill Park for several minutes with her colleague, this lovely woman guessed that it was down the road to the right. Nonetheless, she cautiously googled the address and pointed up the hill in the opposite direction. 

I climbed the incline, my mini suitcase bumping along behind me on the uneven pavement. I came to what appeared to be a main road. A few blocks down, there indeed was a road sign with mileage to Staffin. Another block further, I queried a construction worker as to my progress, and he confirmed my goal was ahead but still several miles yonder. I carried on in a dispirited state for about 20 paces before I spotted that aforementioned cul-de-sac across the street. 

A New Day Dawns

John, my host, had messaged, “I may not be in when you arrive. The front door is unlocked and your room is the single on the left. The bathroom is on the right and check the kitchen for tea/coffee and breakfast.” From the haphazard directions to a welcomeless arrival, one thing was clear. I was completely on my own in Portree. 

While I was sleeping, a 20-something daughter and her mother arrived to claim the double bed in the room adjacent. I discovered this the next morning when the bathroom door was locked for 45 minutes. The only bathroom door. I made the best of the situation, prepping my bag for the day and organizing my post-shower clothing. Dressed in yesterday’s clothes, I headed to the kitchen for breakfast. Large chocolate chunks wrapped in shiny paper and muesli filled two glass canisters. A bowl nearby held apples. I had a sudden and strong nostalgia for my mornings on that other Scottish Isle in Orkney.

On the counter, there was a sign that guests were free to use the fridge, and I made a mental note to gather some provisions at the Co-op. I peeked inside the mini fridge and found a half-full jug of orange juice. I wasn’t sure if it was meant to be communal, but decided to risk it. Until this moment, I hadn’t fully appreciated how much I had enjoyed someone else preparing me breakfast. And planning it out the night before. What an amazing gift. 

I located a bowl and spoon and pilfered some milk. The bathroom door opened, and I abandoned my muesli to sogginess to run to the loo. Good thing too, because occupancy was immediately full upon my return to the table. 

As I finished my bowl, the daughter arrived. She was visiting from her job in Australia and had met her mother in London. I asked if she had any trouble finding the place. She scoffed, “no, I just plugged the address into my phone GPS.” When I mentioned that I didn’t have cell service, that it seemed like too much trouble and too expensive to set up when I researched it before traveling, she looked dumbfounded. “I just picked up a SIM card at the airport and went.” Hmmm . . .  one lesson from this trip was that good directions are scarce in this ancient yet GPS dominated Highlands world. Maybe there was a cellular dealer in this village of 4,571. Not.

I heard a door open in the hallway. I hurriedly rinsed my dishes in the sink, gave them a quick swipe with a dodgy looking scrub brush and deposited them on top of the others in the full dishrack. I grabbed my pile of clean clothes and toiletry bag and scurried for the shower. I had 30 minutes to get to the square for my tour. 

The Sprint Begins

I did an abbreviated version of my morning routine, draped my towel over a closet hanger for lack of anywhere else to put it (the host’s towel claimed the only hook in the bathroom) and was out the door.

Retracing my steps from the evening before, I found myself once again in the square. Other tour buses came and went, but I stood vigil for “Real Scottish Journeys.” Though not initially excited about a tour, this one was unique due to the three hikes involved. I looked forward to having leisure time to explore such famed spots as the Fairy Pools, the Neist lighthouse and the Fairy Glen.

A forest green van emblazoned with “Skye Bus” rolled to a stop. This was my ride (the group appeared to have two names). A spry man in his late 50’s lept from the driver’s seat sporting a clipboard. Couples from around the square gravitated towards him. “I’m Stuart!” I gingerly shook his eager hand and climbed aboard. The transport had two seats on one side and one on the other. I claimed a one seater on the left and settled in. 

Soon the vehicle filled to it’s 18 person capacity. Stuart stood at the front and started his cruise directing responsibilities. “Where is everyone from?!” Goodness. “I see we have a couple of Americans with us today!” It turned out that there was an Indian couple from Farmington Hills, Michigan, on the tour. Where I used to live. Go figure. We dutifully waved at each other. A couple from Calgary across the aisle smiled. I grinned back, warming to Stuart’s enthusiasm. 

I’d found my host for Skye. 

The Fairy Pools

Portree is located in the Northeastern portion of Skye at the base of the Trotternish peninsula. The first destination on our agenda was the Fairy Pools nestled in the midst of the Black Cuillin mountains to the southwest in the middle of the island. As our van wound its way south, Stewart spun yarns of fairies while our group consumed views of green carpeted peaks, rocky valleys and cloud reflecting inlets. We were en route to an area marketed as so beautiful as to be the sole reason to visit Skye.

As we came to a stop in a crowded car park, Stuart joked that we had 50 minutes and that he usually only left one or two tourists behind. The group lumbered out of the van, and he pointed towards a path curving alongside a river receding into the distance. 

Across the street a fairly steep incline ended at a sign pointing the way to the pools.

In the other direction was a waterfall that was immediately interesting, and several of us headed in that direction. Thanks to the couple from Farmington Hills, I was repeatedly photographed in all of its glory:

Time was ticking, however. Despite Stuart assuring us that there was plenty of time for even a slow old man to leisurely explore the area, I’d learned from prior spry “old” Scots that either their idea of leisure or of time differed greatly from my own. I was off.

Despite their otherworldly appearance, the Fairy Pools are naturally formed by a series of waterfalls in the Allt Coir’ a Mhadaih river. Surprisingly, there is no “official” fairy story about the pools. Nonetheless, it is easy to imagine how the unnaturally colored waters made centuries of locals spin yarns of magic. 

My journey to the pools began in the most fun way possible – with stepping stones over the river. A pair of giggling Australian girls from our group grabbed hands as they swayed their way across. A responsible looking 30-something dad offered a hand in my direction in such a polite manner that I could do nothing but accept it. 

It was not possible to hurry. The vast open space nestled between the mountains seemed to slow time and breath. I paced my stops to admire pools and to separate myself from the crowds. One tween shivered at the edge of a crystal clear jade-tinted basin after a mystic dip. I had no such inclination, but admired her spirit. 

Well before I was ready, I came to this sign:

Though I wished to pursue the path, one circular glance informed me that I was the only person from my tour in the vicinity. I still had twenty minutes to make my way back, and meandered in such a way as to enjoy this:

And this:

And then sprinted up the incline to a full and waiting van. Stuart accepted my surprise at not being his tourist left behind with good grace. I plopped my sweating self into the only empty spot above the wheel well.

On to the Edge of the Skye

Our journey resumed. With Celtic tunes as our backdrop, we retraced our path north. Stuart passed around a menu and collected lunch orders in between a story of whole villages being transported to Australia and a second attempt to point out which ancient stone building housed the Talisker Distillery. 

Upon our illustrious guide’s recommendation, I opted for the tomato soup (these Scots really get excited about warm, spoonable liquid). The van veered west, and a cafe appeared out of nowhere. Our troop found spots in a homey room and were delighted to see food trays appearing on the horizon. The paninis the Farmington Hills couple ordered taunted me and my poor choice across the table. Not to remain unfulfilled for long, I gained solace in a luscious cake topped with cream sweetened only by the grasses grazed by the cows who produced it. 

Refreshed, I was ready to clamber up the “end of the world headland” of Neist. 

This destination was not oversold. Nor was the approach. Our van wound around Loch Dunvegan on a single track road. It clambered over hills to emerge into startlingly vivid beauty.  A rocky projectile loomed ahead, jutting into the waters separating this most westerly corner of Skye from the Western Isles looming mistily in the distance. The scale was immense – if Pride Rock in Disney’s Lion King was real, it would be but a pebble in comparison to this Neist Point trajectory. 

Upon exiting the vehicle, Stuart gathered his day’s clan about him and laid out the hiking options. I could not but aim for the most distant choice – following the steep stairway down the keeper’s pathway to the Neist lighthouse. Stuart said there was plenty of time. I knew to hurry.

From the carpark, I grabbed the cold metal handrail and started my 70 degree descent. While I could not glimpse the lighthouse yet, concentrated views of my footholds and pauses to take in the surrounding sea kept my mind occupied. It was no short trek to the bottom — I was keenly aware that this was the easy direction and that the return would offer somewhat more of a challenge.

The bottom of the staircase opened onto a flat breezy expanse, the Neist projectile rising to the right. A grassy path led to the cliff’s edge. I meandered along it to catch my first sighting of the lighthouse around the headland:

Peering up to the tip of the outcrop, a decision had to be made. To climb to the apex or to wind around its base on a backwards “Z” path to see the lighthouse up close. I chose the latter.

The wind picked up and with it a blustery wetness that wasn’t quite rain. The tour’s couple from Calgary and I joined strides and made our way to the lighthouse. It was built in 1907 and a bit derelict, but functional – casting its light for 24 miles guiding ships through the bay’s treacherous waters.

Once there, I found a solitary perch to absorb my surroundings. What is it about a lighthouse that makes one want to instantly give up all and live in a conical tiny house? The remoteness beckons to some ancient part of the soul.

A glance at my modern watch told me that I needed to get both my body and soul moving. I sped to retrace my steps, only deviating from the path 20 yards up the trajectory before sighing and wisely resuming my way towards the concrete incline and my punctual guide. 

Midway up the precipitous pathway, I encountered the daughter from my AirBnB descending. “Hi roommate!” I cheerily called while waving her way.

What is it about running into someone one even vaguely knows, and might not even like, in an unexpected place that makes one giddy with surprise? Maybe it’s just me. She had abandoned her mother at the cliff top and had her sights set on the summit. I did not detain her further and quickened my steps toward Stuart.

Out of breath, I rejoined the tour, this time the second to last to return. I was grateful for the tardy man from Farmington Hills who could not forgo photos from the pinnacle I still admired in the distance.

Onward to the Fairy Glen

Once our crew was settled into the van, Stuart enthused that the next stop was sure to be our favorite; a woman on his last tour returned the following morning to spend an entire day there because she liked it so much. I was skeptical but glad to be on my way to someplace memorable.

En route, Stuart told how the treeless lands we passed once had been forested; generations of clans lived and farmed in the same communities until the discovery that sheep were more lucrative than produce. Thousands were turned out of their ancestral homes never to return, and forests were leveled by future lamb chops into rocky plains. While the surroundings were rugged and truly beautiful, our group collectively mourned the loss of both the clan homelands and topography. Not even a sighting of some hairy koos could lift our spirits:

The shared sadness from these tales, however, dissipated as a new landscape unfolded before us. 

If fairies had a Mecca, it would surely be Skye’s Fairy Glen. “Magical” is the only word to truly describe it. It is as if a child hid all of her favorite toys under a green carpet and then tugged it tight to try to conceal the wonders beneath. Stacked conical terraces rose from the plains to lure onlookers into exploring their secrets. The highest one was titled the Fairy Castle. It is below this wonder that our van came to a rest.

Adults aged 18 to 65 emerged from the tour van looking like new arrivals to Willy Wonka’s chocolate river wonderland. Our group dispersed in slow motion – individuals spinning in lazy circles to take in the enchanted vista. I came upon a crevice and squeezed myself though to emerge in a valley of rock cairn clusters and mystic rings. 

A ledge carved into the rock face showed the passage to the castle. Never one to waste an opportunity to climb, let alone to follow in the footsteps of fairies, I lost no time in mounting the slope ahead. 

To journey to the Fairy Castle, one must bravely shuffle along the winding ledge. Then one must exhale completely to squeeze through a fissure. Finally, one must forget the return passage and clamber up an avalanche of pebbles to emerge at the castle’s spire.

Oh what a view.

I perched on the ledge for a time, absorbing the whimsical vibes of the place. Then I slid and squeezed and edged my way to the valley floor to spend the remainder of my minutes walking in spirals and investigating hidden vistas tucked beyond jutting rocks. 

Unlike the other stops so far, I felt completely at peace when I returned to the corporate vehicle. And with no judgement whatsoever of an unknown woman who would use one whole precious day on Skye to return. 

And Back on Steroids

Back in the van, we learned that landslides 6500 years ago formed the features of our photostops ahead. 

We took a quick look at the Quiraing range:

(Stuart said this without a doubt should be my hiking destiny of the morrow)

Then a cursory view of Kilt Rock:

(which was exciting to me not so much due to its formation 60 million years ago during a volcanic eruption but due to it’s resemblance to “Giant’s Causeway” in Ireland and to it’s cousin “Finnegal’s Cave” that I would visit during my stay on the Isle of Mull. The cliff face does also truly look Kilt-like which one must admit is cool, even on a Scottish isle without any clans left.)

I had to giggle at, yet take heed of, this Scottish warning:

Then stopped for a quick photo op of the Old Man of Storr (the 160-foot-tall basalt rock jutting into the sky):

 And we were done! Back in the square at Portree, I collected dining tips from Stuart and my tour van clan alike, smiled my goodbyes and was on my way. 

Could I force a pizza joint to make a reservation against its will for one determined American woman. You bet!

Could I get one more hike in before dinner? Of course!

Could I decipher the bus schedule posted in the square’s shelter for my next day’s adventure. No problem.

Back in my single bed, I dozed off to Sherlock after signing into my Netflix account on my tiny room’s surprisingly smart tv.

An exhausting yet amazing day.