The Isle of Skye, Scotland

Uig Harbour

One of the reasons why I moved to the UK was for the opportunity every so often to take myself off to a different place for a week or so to ramble, to take photographs, to read, to chat to strangers and to write. I plot where to go by Youth Hostel (or similar cheap accommodation) and by accessibility by public transport. From 13 to 19 June 2010 I was based in the village of Uig on the north western shores of the Isle of Skye, the Inner Hebrides, Scotland.

The indigenous peoples of Australia call it “country”: that pull the country has on them and their place in it. English is poor at describing it, and I’m afraid I only know the concept through books and talks on the radio in English. Even when it is Aboriginal people talking or writing about “country”, it’s in English.

Yet, the words I have heard spoken and sung, and read written down, as imperfect as I believe them to be, so beautifully describe the feelings I have had (and attempted to articulate) for many years when I travel to certain places.I was born in Australia. I have lived there most of my life. The half of my genetic make-up that comes from my mother and her family has lived in Australia for generations. I share what I have learned by osmosis (a metaphor!), but I have always felt like the country and I are not as one. I love it, but it’s just not my country (in the Aboriginal sense as I understand it, not the jingoistic nationalist sense).


Northern Europe, however, that is a whole other matter. Even, weirdly, the Netherlands, which has substantial parts – the polderland – built entirely by humans in the last few hundred years.


I have a fair bit of Celtic and Scandinavian blood in me. I’ve been to Ireland, Wales and Scotland, and I love what I’ve seen of each. The wildness, the grey, the wet inhospitality. Not of the people, I hasten to add, but of the country. The people tend to be incredibly friendly and welcoming, but perhaps a little wary at first of strangers. I’ve never lived in any of those countries, so perhaps trying to settle there might be a little different.


Water sings in my veins, but it’s water of river barges rather than sailing ships on the open seas. It’s the water of the small fishing trawlers and boats of the lobster men. The water of the peat, the heather, falling as rain and flavouring the ales and whiskies.


Uig is in the north western part of Skye and it was the first time I’ve ever been that far north. I was a week out from the northern summer solstice and the length of daylight hours was amazing. Only about two hours of darkness, and that was with cloudy days and nights.



I travelled up by the Caledonian Sleeper from London Euston to Inverness, catching another train to Kyle of Lochalsh, and then the bus to Uig. The skies were blue, reflecting in the lochs and making them glow. The green-grey of the rocks and heather, lifted by the yellow of gorse in bloom, and the reds and purple-blues of other flowers. It is the clichéd explosion of colour in a place I normally associate with various hues of grey.


Once we got on to Skye we were halted by a traffic accident, which was an interesting introduction to the people of Skye. They were concerned to the level of working out what had happened, but when they got word (somehow) that while the helicopter was on its way to pick up some injured people, there had been no deaths, and the bus driver and various other islanders visibly relaxed and enjoyed the sun during the unexpected break. The problem for some of my fellow passengers was that they would miss their ferry from Uig. But, what could they do? Nothing, but sort out alternative accommodation (which didn’t seem to be a problem). Once we got going again we were dropped off at Portree, the capital of the island, and had to wait for a local bus to take us to Uig. That, too, wasn’t something worrying about. It happens. Go with it. Where we were waiting was a quite pleasant little square bathed in sunshine and no midges about. The bus eventually showed up, and turned out to be the school bus. One thing I learned during my week is that there are only a few busses in the Uig end of Skye: the morning school runs, the afternoon school runs, and one service at about lunch time, all going both clockwise and counter-clockwise. I felt like I got to know Morag, one of the drivers, quite well… The kids were generally well-behaved, loved Doctor Who(!), and it was fascinating to watch the family dynamics. 


I was dropped off right outside the Scottish Youth Hostel that sits quite high on one of the hills that surrounds Uig Bay. I climbed up the hill to wait for a bit. It’s one of those hostels that opens after 5pm for a few hours. But, the sun was still in full glorious force and there was a wooden picnic table-and-bench affair outside with a lovely view of sheep in heather fields on one side, and the bay on the other. I was joined by a chap who was obviously walking a long way. The only words we exchanged were about whether the hostel was open yet or not. He then lay himself on the grass and started to snore pretty much straight away. 


5pm came, and I checked in. Grabbed myself a bunk and made it up, then dumped my stuff, and headed into Uig to grab some food. Oops. The shop was closed. Down to the pub, which called itself an inn, and got a meal and some local ale. Bit pricey, but not bad. Discovered another shop down near the docks, but it was just closing up, too. Ah well. Opening times logged for the next day to grab breakfast to go, and closing times logged to buy food supplies for the next few days. Read for a bit in the evening back at the hostel, turning in not too late, and falling asleep pretty much straight away.

souterrain

My plan for Tuesday was to go for a walk following the coastal road to see how far I could go and have reasonable time to turn back. I bought some supplies on the way at the post office / shop, and set off following the road. It was a grey day, but not actually raining, and the road basically room enough for one vehicle with plentiful passing spots. Once I got up the main hill leading out from Uig Bay, the road was fairly even. Loads of sheep about, mostly of the local black face breed. One place that made me laugh was a sign saying “not suitable for pedestrians”, which didn’t seem to be any different from the other places. There was no alternative but to keep going and I escaped from the “danger” unscathed. I was fascinated by a symbol on my map saying “souterrain”. It turns out it’s an iron age storage bunker and evidence of a settlement. Very neat the way the local archaeological society has dealt with it. They ask for a pound, and leave a few hard hats and a torch so people can try to crawl in to have a look. Crawl is right, it’s a tiny space.



I managed to walk up to the island’s historical site, which is a recreation of a settlement. In other words, stone cottages with thatch roofs, and various bizarre models and loads of text. In a field below it were Highland cattle. The site was quite cheap, which was good, because for what it could be it was very disappointing. The rain came while I was there, but I still walked all the way back to Uig. I did my shopping, and then popped into the Inn for a drink before heading back up the hill to the hostel. 


Next day was the bus to the Old Man of Storr. Those of you who have seen the original Wicker Man film will know it from the opening shots. It was quite tough going in a way up a hill through pine forests and clearings. The pine forest parts were deliciously cool, but the midges were out in force. I’d been lulled into a very false sense of ease with them and that day was the only day I hadn’t brought my midge repellent. The clearings alternated from bright and hot sunshine and rain. Awesome views. Fascinating place.


I then caught the bus through to Portree to have a look there. I ended up buying some Talisker whisky, which is one of my favourites. Portree is not exactly a thriving metropolis, but there were quite a few tourists there. I caught the bus back to Uig to cook myself a simple dinner.


On the advice of two chaps staying at the hostel who I’d first met on the bus, I planned to go to Flodigarry to walk up and along the amazing rock ridges called the Quiraing. Here I got adopted by a ewe and her lamb, finally managing to shake them when I climbed a stile. Beautiful day, beautiful scenery. I took all day to what would normally take only a few hours, but I was very pleased to have done it. Only one really tricky place over a small river that had cut quite a deep gorge into the side of the rock and no crossing made. On one face of the rock (where I’d started) it had been sunny; turn a corner I walked into a bank of clouds. Rain the whole rest of the way until I emerged from the clouds into the sun again. Waited for the bus, and had a little snooze at the hostel before heading to the Inn for a proper dinner. I had local mussels (small, but very tasty), local salmon lightly poached (delicious), washed down by the local dark ale called Black Face after the local sheep variety, and then a local single malt whisky not made by Talisker. Hm. That’s a mystery, and annoying because it was seriously nice stuff.


Friday came around too fast. I left early in order to spend a bit of time in Kyle, which is a bustling place compared with anywhere I’d been to on Skye. I dumped by backpack at the railway station, had a lovely lunch at a strange hotel on the waterfront and watched the advance parties of a race between various rigid hull inflatable boats (RHIBs) arrive. I had a little look in the railway museum, and then just basically read a not bad first novel set on the Shetland Isles I’d picked up from the hostel. Train was on time, and the switch at Inverness seamless. Again I was not sharing my berth. Happy dance. I slept quite well on the sleeper to London, where we arrived fantastically on time.


Brilliant little holiday. Not repeatable, but recommended.