From Dundreggan we made quick time west, stopping first at a ruined church and its surrounding cemetery that held many MacRaes, just because it was a beautiful day and ruined churches fascinate us.
We continued along Loch Duich until we reached Eilean Donan Castle (that’s EYE-lin or ELL-in DOE-nin), stopping to tour the inside, which was dressed from head to toe in MacRae clan tartan. Clearly they owned this region; in fact, a MacRae had purchased the castle ruins in the early 1900s and had it restored. Today the MacRaes still own it and use it for summer stays and clan gatherings. A giant portcullis raises and lowers the castle gate, but only in April when the MacRaes have their annual banquet. I had no trouble imagining them, dressed to the nines in their clan tartan, listening to bagpipes play as the gate opened to allow them inside for their ceilidh (read: big dance party).
On we drove to the Isle of Skye and found our next Airbnb: a “traditional croft house” with a white stucco exterior and slate roof, two one-window dormers on the second floor, a large garden out front, and a line of laundry billowing in the wind. Our sweet hostess Sarah welcomed us in and allowed us to use her kitchen to heat up some leftover pasta we’d saved for lunch. We ate at a picnic table in the yard and soaked up the unseasonably warm sun.
Not wanting to waste a moment of our one day on Skye, we hopped into the car and drove the loop around the Trotternish Peninsula, stopping to see rock formations like Kilt Rock, a cliff whose dried lava columns look like kilt pleats. Intoxicated by the weather—gusty wind with a bright, baking sun—we stopped frequently to hike around cliffs, falls, and beaches and breathe in a distinctly earthy Scotland smell.
About halfway around the peninsula loop, we stopped at the Ferry Inn for a mocha and a rest. There were two bartenders and three patrons including us, and the locals entertained us with amusing conversation about how it was the Sabbath and we were in a “heathen place.” Until recently, there’d been very strict expectations about not working on the Sabbath, so the deviation from this tradition is relatively new. It was wrong even to tidy your house on Sunday, but as the little gray-headed bartendress reasoned, “Would you really miss out on a day like today to hang out your laundry?”
Scots everywhere have been abuzz over the glorious weather, as were the English and likewise the Welsh over the sunny—though cooler—weather we’d experienced there. Warm days are not lost on us pale-faced Seattleites, and we consider ourselves fortunate to have been rained on only once so far. (Knock on wood.)
In the evening we had dinner next to a wood-burning fireplace at Cappuccino’s in Portree. You think you’re getting off easy with the pronunciation of Portree, but you’re wrong; it’s Por-TREE. Cappuccino’s served us up a mean sticky toffee pudding for dessert, and we thus discovered that “pudding” over here means “cake.”
After dinner we returned to ye auld croft house and cuddled up for an early bedtime, waking in the morning to have breakfast and chat with Sarah and her two other guests: a mother who was driving her college-aged son around Skye while he studied religion and its importance to small, close-knit communities. He might do well to visit the bartenders at the Ferry Inn. We went on to debate the merits of coffee versus tea in the mornings, with us firmly on the coffee side and him deeming our high-tech coffee makers silly and excessive. That is, until we told him about the machines you can program to grind your beans and brew your coffee by the time you wake up, which he sleepily pronounced “bloody brilliant.”
Instead of being sad about leaving, I prefer instead to focus on Skye as a place I know I will go again someday. It has become my favorite part of Scotland, easily and immediately. I can’t wait to see it again.
Until next time!
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