Day Eleven--Touch Not A Catt Bot A Targe

This post is post-dated for Sunday, September 9, 2007 (also, a very long time ago).
Today was all about one of the reasons we picked Scotland for vacation (besides free airline tickets)—Thomaston Castle. As I mentioned yesterday, Thomaston is the ancestral castle of the McAlvanys. We heard about it years ago while doing a lineage search online and determined to visit one day. So today is that day. Thomaston is on someone’s estate, so we were going to need to go and ask permission of the owners in order to walk around the grounds. We thought that, given it’s a Sunday morning, it may not be wise to show up too early for this purpose. We thought we might sleep in a bit, eat breakfast and then go over to the Culzean Castle estate before heading over to see Thomaston. So that’s exactly what we did. We got to the Culzean estate about 10 am—just at opening—and headd for the castle. The grounds here are impressive and extensive. You could spend a whole day enjoying everything it has to offer. By the car park there is a deer park where a herd of red deer range. We realized that these are only the second herd for us to see while here in Scotland—the first being upon arrival to the Highlands. We hadn’t seen any others the whole time. They are a ruddy red in color, but we did note that in size they are much smaller than our local mule deer in the Rockies. We walked over to the castle and joined a tour in progress. It’s a perfectly preserved castle (thanks to the Scottish National Trust)—a true specimen of grandeur. It is tied to the Kennedy lineage (no relation to JFK, if you were wondering as they are Irish, not Scot, Kennedys), and like all lineages full of tales to tell. We learned that aristocracy runs in a certain order, specifically: King; Prince; Duke; Marquees; then Earl. The Kennedys were Earls until being promoted later to Marquees. The family was rich by all means, and like many of the aristocracy throughout the Empire, they had their “hands” in everything. In this, I mean especially, slavery and smuggling. Yes, smuggling. In fact, the castle is perched up high on a rocky cliff and below at the foot of the cliff there are caves where the family hid their smuggling booty. Then there’s the unfortunate slavery connection. The family themselves did not own slaves, but they did own the ships that took the slaves from Africa to America and England. Surprisingly enough though, their “real” money came from two sources: farming the land and ship building. Their estate was quite expansive and they brought in most of their money this way, but in the Victorian times the Marquees was a mariner and ship builder and started the Ailsa Shipbuilding Company out of Troon which became the most respected ship building company in the UK. Anyway, the castle and grounds are impressive and we really could have spent a day here. There is even a wing of the castle given to General/President Eisenhower in gratitude for his leadership as Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces during WWII. There is a great exhibit on Eisenhower, as well, worth a visit if you are a WWII buff. We chose to journey onward to Thomaston about 1pm. The estate is literally next door to the Culzean estate, and after hunting down the farm hand we found out that Thomaston sits on the 10,000 acre Cassillis estate. The drive from Culzean here is tree lined with a magical green canopy of branches and leaves ascending overhead. As you open out of the trees Thomaston sits just off the road about 100 feet. It’s a derelict castle with a roof having fallen eons ago, and a virtual forest having grown in the interior. There are tree branches plunging towards the sky out of small windows. The whole of the place is not massive, but I’m sure it was impressive in the medieval era. On the internet I Googled “Thomaston” and there are drawings by an artist of what he thinks it must have looked like in its hayday. There would have been turrets at every corner and a grand entrance. David and I fancied what it would be like to one day buy the castle and completely renovate it. That was before we found out it lay on a 10,000 acre estate. Well, one can dream, right? There is a Scottish castle in the East of Scotland that Dave and I came across a year ago or so. It is the most amazing and inspiring renovation we’ve ever seen. It was a shell of a ruined castle before a man with a vision came and completely restored it. Now it’s one of the most beautiful medieval castles one can stay in for holiday. We walked around Thomaston and I took pictures. It’s a sad little place now with no on to care for it. There is a shed, or “leanto”, attached to the back of it where miscellaneous farm equipment is kept. There’s a stone kennel to the side of it where the ground’s keeper has his hunting dogs. It is wholly forgotten among the current business of the estate. It stands only as a reminder of something that once was and will never be again. In some ways, it’s a mystery like Nessie or the Big Gray Man. We want to believe it was something grand when it might not have been. When we’d had our fill we left and drove out towards Ayr searching for kilts and tartans on a Sunday. This was ill planned on our part, as not many shops are open on Sundays here. We take for granted that Sundays in America offer every kind of diversion—including shopping. The shop we wanted was indeed closed, so we made ourselves a lovely drive from Ayr to Alloway, must a mile away. They are both charming villages with parks and pretty homes. Trees are everywhere—and every kind of tree all blending together to form a very harmonious picture. We came upon the Brig O’ Doon hotel in Alloway on the River Doon. No relation to the musical of the same name. They were having a wedding down by the river, as most hotels do during the summer weekends. The waitress in the coffee shop there on the grounds said the hotel has weddings booked every Saturday till October. Weddings are impressive here, with many men in kilts of their gamily tartan and women in hats. My first time to Scotland was when I was in high school and an older friend of our family was marrying a Scot from Aberdeen. I was one of her bridesmaids and I remember the whole experience like it was a fairytale. Everything about it was traditional, and I remember dancing with the men in kilts and wondering if they wear any underwear beneath those kilts. This wedding reminds me of that day. Just beyond the hotel is the Brig O’Doon, or the Bridge over the River Doon. Again, no relation to the musical. And across the street is the Burns National Monument and Heritage Park. Burns made the Brig O'Doon famous in his poem Tam O'Shanter (though it should be mentioned that, in it's own right, it is a surviving single-arched medieval bridge). I haven’t read a lot of Burns, but I think I’ve read every work by Miss Jane Austen. And the countryside around Ayrshire reminds me of the places she lived and wrote about. I think David thinks Austen’s works have ruined me. I mean, I love this countryside more than any. If you asked me for an ideal landscape—this is what I would describe: Rolling green hills, green trees of every variety and shade (but especially Oak trees), farms and meadows, and streams running through them. And old stone bridges and country homes hidden down long drives. My United Kingdom is the Georgian UK. And our drive out of Ayrshire today harkened me to thoughts of Austen’s characters and the Georgian world I still find so fascinating. Of course, something we saw all too often in Scotland—and saw twice today—was churches boarded up or changed into another use. In the picturesque village of Maybole the central church of Scotland was completely boarded up and not in use anymore. And just up the road in Minishant there is a de-consecrated church that has been made into a tandoori Indian restaurant (of all things!—it seems sacreligious). All reminders and sign posts of the post-Christian world of Europe. We headed on north to Glasgow to stay our last night at the Holiday Inn Glasgow Airport—just steps away from the terminal. We watched another Rugby match—this one between Portugal and Scotland (Scotland won). We ate at the bar and had a Guinness on draught which takes so much better than out of a can in America. On draught, there is no bitter aftertaste—just smooth delicious flavor. But I digress. We then caught a little of Lord of the Rings III beore bed—which seemed a very fitting end to our journeys. Our grand tour of Scotland had come to an end, and I must admit we were homesick—particularly for our son. So this is where my blog will end. Tomorrow morning we’ll head out on a BA flight back to the US (hopefully uneventful), and after a long day’s journey we’ll once more settle in to a night’s rest. I want to leave writing with something I read in The Road North, by the editor, June Skinner Sawyers: “The Scotland we think we know is as much a product of our collective imagination as it is an actual place. It can be whatever we want it to be: urban bustle, quiet retreat, rugged outpost. Admittedly, much has changed since the early travelers first scribbled down their initial impressions. And yet much remains the same. The mountains and lochs that Boswell and Johnson witnessed with their own eyes are still there for all to see. The inhabitants, although more sophisticated and very much a part of the modern world, are still Scots—with all that entails. And countless people—natives and visitors alike—still travel to this ancient and complex land in search of something quite apart from the ordinary. The road north still beckons.”

..and by the way, if you were wondering, "Touch Not a Catt Bot A Targe" is the MacIlvain chattan, or motto (as it is a sept of the MacBain clan). It means literally: Don't touch a cat without a glove.

Day Ten--The Ferry Dance

This post is post-dated for Saturday, September 8, 2007 (a long time ago!). Pictures to post later…
We drug ourselves from quite good sleep at 5:15 am and were on the road by 5:45. Way too early so we made some quick coffee to take with us. The ferry ride from Stornoway to Ullapool is about 2 ½ hours so after filling the hull with cars and trucks ( I can’t believe the ferry can transport so many huge cargo truck!) we ate breakfast in the cafeteria. Then we went to the lounge and Dave slept on the follow with a rolled up jacket as a pillow, while I wrote and read. We arrived in Ullapool in the northern Highlands about 10 am, to begin or very long day of driving south towards Ayrshire. Ullapool is a cute harbor town. I can imagine it in its hay day as the British empire ships docked here bringing their bounty from far away lands and sailors to boot. It’s a pretty little town surrounded by forests and mountains. Dave and I both remarked to one another how happy we were to be back in the large pine trees and forests. I think the Highlands are our favorite part of Scotland. We love trees—I mean REALLY love trees—and there are a lot of them here. We feel easy and comfortable and at home in very green treed environments. That may sound silly, but the lushness of vegetation has always brought me peace and comfort. In contrast, I feel least comfortable in the desert. In fact, I hate the desert. The drive out west to California is the worst drive ever. Nothing but desert to lead the way. It’s parched, hot and empty. When I think of trees I think of the Ents in the Lord of the Rings. They belong to the landscape and have seen so much change. They are like old, wise friends. If only they could speak what they could tell us! Here in this part of Scotland I’ve noticed they fence in their forests. Or is it that they fence out people? Whichever, we’ve found it interesting that large fences are erected around forest clusters. Our drive towards Inverness was quite lovely. Inverness itself is a fine small city with a beautifully historic town center and buildings lining the river that runs through town and opens onto Moray Firth. I was reminded as we passed the turn off for the Cairngorm mountains and neared Loch Ness, that this part of Scotland likes their “monsters”. Two of Scotland’s most beloved and mysterious monsters live in these parts—Nessie and the Big Gray Man (aka Yeti). As most people know, Nessie is the Loch Ness “monster”. While in a hotel in Sleat I passed some time reading a small booklet about the Loch Ness monster and I have to admit that the evidence for its existence could be compelling. Scholars think Nessie is probably a kind of water dinosaur called a . The depth of Loch Ness itself is about 700 (or more) feet—which for a think long lake is mighty deep. There have been all sorts of sonar equipment employed, and pictures taken, and other scientific study done, and most people still think the reality of the creature is bonafide. Whether it is real or not is not my business here, but I can’t help wanting it to be true. Doesn’t everyone? There’s something so exciting about the thought of a prehistoric creature still living among us, concealed. We only stopped once on the drive that borders Loch Ness—just to snap a shot of Urqhart Castle and the loch beyond. But I kept peering out our car window as we drove south quietly hoping to be that special person that gets a rare glimpse of the monster. Is that so wrong? It was like indulging in a really scrumptious piece of chocolate—I couldn’t help my greater curiosity. But alas, no Nessie. The other great local “monster” is called the Big Gray Man of Ben Macdui. His more general name is Yeti. Yes, that oversized hairy mountain creature that the liked of Reinhold Messner have been hunting for centuries. The lore of the Big Gray Man seems to go back to the 19th Century around here. I’m sure it’s older in toerh parts of the world. One of the books I brought along with me on this trip is an entire book dedicated to the Big Gray Man by a writer who lived near the Cairngorm mountains (the Big Gray Man’s stompin’ ground) most of his life. It’s really a fascinating book without any certain conclusions on his existence. He is supposed to talk the Cairngorm mountain range, and in particular the mountain called Ben Macdui. The story is enough to make me want to venture out tot eh Cairngorms for a backpacking trip! I just love this mysterious kind of stuff , and I think deep down most people do. It connects us with something mythic and extraordinary. If this big foot exists we’ll probably never know. But isn’t it fun to imagine it foes? I thought about all these things as we headed south back towards Forth William where the World Mountain Biking Championships were still on. Dave was hoping to get up for an hour or so to see the competition and maybe watch a glance of the US team, since at least one of the US team member was from our town. But parking was full and they were busing people up to the competition at the Nevis ski resort and so we opted for a quick lunch in town instead because we needed to get back on the road to make it south before night fall. We stopped at Glen Coe again to snap some more shots of the moody mountains. This time we noticed tons of cars parked on the side of the road. Seems with such a great weekend with clear weather brought out everyone from the cities—including all the motorcycle clubs. We passed so many motorcycles it was mind boggling. Dave was jealous and really wanted us to be out there, too. And though I do think it would have been a fun holiday to tour Scotland on a motorcycle, I have to be honest that there were many times it would have been mighty chilly. So anyway, we decided that we might be too pressed for time to walk the Lost Valley trail—as tempting as it was. Glen Coe itself is steeped in Scot history as the place where the Jacobite rebellion led to mass slaughter. The Glen Coe massacre is legendary and, I believe, a rousing point for Scottish pride. Many highlanders were slaughtered here by the English--all over who should hold the crown to the kingdom—William or Charles. Anyway, I’ll let you look up the history for yourself. Give it a quick search on Wikipedia. In 1929 H.V. Morton in his famous book In Search of Scotland wrote this about Glen Coe: “Glen Coe is…awesome, it is stark, it is, like all the wild mountains of Scotland, a lesson in humility. Man has never existed for it; it is, at least in sunlight, not unfriendly so much as utterly oblivious of humanity…. Glen Coe in sunlight does not make a man shudder because it is beautiful. It rather encourages him to sit down and look at it for a long time as you sit down in the sand and look at the Sphinx, wondering what he can see in the sky. Perhaps it is God.” So, as we approached Glasgow we noticed teams of people leaving the city for the countryside. It was a mass exodus of cars, and all the hotels lining Loch Lomond (the closest loch to Glasgow) had “no vacancies” signs out front and full parking lots. I was glad we had spent most of our time in non-crowded locations. Tonight we arrived at Whitestone Cottage, about a half mile or less from the entrance to Culzean Castle and a mile from David’s ancestral castle. Whitestone Cottage’s claim to fame is that it was Robbie burn’s mum’s home. This is Burn’s country in Ayrshire, so all around are places where Burns wrote his poems or gained inspiration for writing them. For those of you unfamiliar with Robert Burns, he is the poet Lareate of Scotland. Almost every town in America with Scot inhabitants—or people of Scot descent—has a Robbie Burn’s Night in January—on his birthday. Even our town has one. So, we stayed at Whitestone—a small cottage that was very sufficient, if a little damp inside. Somewhere along the ways there has been water leaks, so when we entered we felt the dampness. But for one night it was great. The real purpose of staying here was that it was so close to the ancestral castle of the MacIlvains—Thomaston Castle. Not much is known about David’s ancestors. Somewhere along the way MacIlvain was bastardized into McAlvany. But even MacIlvain was a bastardization itself, and way back McAlvany was of the MacBean clan. So we claim the MacBean tartan as our won. Thomaston was passed to the MacIlvains through marriage, but it was thought Thomaston was originally built by a nephew of Robert the Bruce. Thomaston is in ruins, but we were intent on visiting anyway. But more on that tomorrow. My own Scottish lineage is tied to the Hay, Stewart and MacTavish clans. After settling in Dave watched the World Cup Rugby match between the US and England (England won) and I slept. I did catch a bit of the game though and Dave and I laughed at the arrogance of the English Rugby announcers and how they patronized the US team. It was very British of them. I was wiped out from the journey, but we were also hungry and decided to hunt out a feeding ground. So we headed a few miles south of the cottage towards the Turnberry Golf Resort. I knew Turnberry was famous, but being that we are not golfers I hadn’t even considered that it would be near where we were staying. We reached the resort quite by accident, just as the sun was setting. It was marvelous. The sun was gorgeous and the resort itself—set on a hillside—glowed a peachy pink color. We decided to stop there for dinner. We had to wait for a dinner seating, but we put our names in and sat in the Ailsa lounge and had drinks. This was probably the best and most enchanting part of the evening. The Ailsa bar has huge bay windows overlooking the ocean and Ailsa island beyond. Ailsa island looks like a hige lump of an island plopped out into the ocean. Supposedly, it is the best place in the world to quarry lawn bowling stones, but what do I know about these things. There was also a lovely lighthouse on the coast. It was magical with the sun setting and the sky throwing off the most gorgeous peachy hue. We sat there and I had a mint julep and Dave a neat whiskey while a pianist played old standards. I couldn’t have asked for a better evening. We later ate dinner and Dave was in heaven. His favorite food of late is foie grois—which I find repulsive—and they had four dishes with it. Dave had them make a trilogy of the foie grois as an appetizer and then he had one as a main entrée. He had wines to match and we laughed because Dave said that if one wants to make an indecent monetary proposal (i.e., lots of expensive food and drink), it must be preceded by at least 3 whiskeys (he had already had three today between watching the Rugby match and then at the Ailsa lounge). This place was expensive—especially when we calculated the exchange between the pound and the awful dollar (yes, we actually do this kind of stuff). But all’s well that ends well, and this was a terrific ending to a mighty journey. Later that evening we began counting the Americans we crossed at Turnberry. I think the whole of the resort was full of them. Which was ironic for us because they were the first Americans we had really come across on our trip. If you’re American and you love gold this is THE “It” place for you.

Day Nine--A Little Ancient History

As I am unable to write daily, this post is post-dated for Friday, September 7, 2007. Pictures to follow...
We're off to Stornoway (again), but this time to the MacLeod Butcher to get some heather honey and shortbread. We thought we'd bring home some heather honey, since I've never seen it in the US. Next to the butcher is a post office that sells liquor. It gives going to the post office a whole nother meaning. After that we took the road that cuts over the island of Lewis to the west side. From there we thought we'd work our way south along the coastline where there seems to be a gathering of the ancient sites on the island. The road west is near the top of Lewis, where the mountains have receeded and all that remains is bare, open flat land. Like their version of the prairies. It felt a little like Kansas, only heather covered and rusty in color. The sun was out on this portion of the island, and the beaches were so close that this uneventful side of Lewis was easily overlooked. Because there are few rocks in the landscape, there seemed to be alot of peat farming. There were stacks of it drying out everywhere. The landscape, as predicted, poured us out on the sandy western shores--as prisitine and white as their Harris counterparts. On the curve southward we passed two Volkswagon vans with surfboards strapped to the top, so I assumed they were headed for the famous Lewis surfing waves to the north of the island. I couldn't imagine surfing in water this cold. You'd have to be pretty die hard for that. The only times I've surfed were in warmish Southern California water, and even that was a bit too cold. So on to our first stop...the Norse Mill and Kiln, a small walk from the road towards a small stream. These rectangular stone structures were still in use as mills until the 1930s, though their creation predates the Norse inahabitants of Northern Lewis. Scholars think that these are probably of Irish, and not Norse, design--though archeological evidence has shown these same structures as far away as Turkey and Asia. The roofs are about 2 foot thick thatch held on by a webbing of ropes tied to large rocks draped over the thatch. there are sno windows. so it's ver dark inside--dark and damp. I couldn't imagine volunarily spending half of my day in such darkness grinding oat and barley and drying it. We left here with a new appreciation for windows and headed towardst he Garenin village of black houses. Garenin holds the only intact black house village on the whole of the islands. This village was last inhabited in 1974. The houses here look very similar in design and appearance to the Norse mill and kiln structures. The only difference was occasional windows or “sky lights” in these homes. Grouped tightly together, this cluster of houses must have made a very fine working village on the sea. There is a small museum inside one of the homes that was made up to look like the inside of the last inhabitant’s home. Quite cozy with two fireplaces, I was amused at the sloping foundation that allowed for water to gather down at the furthest end and be directed back outside. They had a tweed loom inside and a demonstration was given to us by a very aged tweed maker. The contraption is quite old—looks as if it came out of the early industrial revolution. It’s quite complex, though, and made of iron and is manually powered by the movement of the maker’s feet. Like riding a bicycle. It’s like getting exercise while you weave. In fact, the old man was a little out of breath after the demonstration. But he explained to us that tweed makers were sent a pattern and dyed yarn by the mills and were paid on every 100 meters they produced. Most people, he said, were crofters AND weavers. So when the weather was bad they’d head indoors and weave. People all over Harris and Lewis still have one of these large looms in their homes. He showed us the cheaper make shift version of the loom which he used when he was a kid—made out of an upside down bike frame, the petals, and a single wheel. It was rigged to be a more laborious loom and the weaver told us he remembered having weavers pay he and his young friends to take their turns at weaving so to give the older weaver a break. It was a quick way to earn pittance. The new looms were noisy and I couldn’t imagine weaving on one all day and having to hear the racket they make. I’m surprised an entire generation of weavers isn’t deaf. So our next stop south was Dun Carloway Broch, only a few miles away. This broch, or fortress, was built in the 1st Century but lived in until the Norse inhabited the island. It’s the most intact broch in the islands, and since the brochs are only found in the islands, it is the most intact broch ever found. The conical shape of the four-story structure is still partly intact, with the walls around one side only standing about 5 feet high. People would have lived and worked in these dark stone structures when they were in threat or when they needed—for whatever reason—to congregate in one place and live in community under one roof. From here we went further south to Callanish—home of the famous Callanish Standing Stones. Much like Stone Henge, these standing stones are large rectangularish pillars stood in the ground to form a pattern. These were set in a cross shape, with a circular center and a cairn in the center of the central circular stones. They think this central cairn was probably a burial cairn. No ones knows for sure why people set up standing stones. It’s a big mystery. They do know they are over 3,000 years old. These particular stones are made of Lewis Gneis—a super hard crystalline rock that is considered to be the most ancient rock in the world. We walked around and through the rock formation wondierng what exactly we were walking through. They had thought years ago that these must have been used for ceremonies and perhaps sacrifices. But archeology has never uncovered—at any set of standing stones--any pottery or other utensils regularly associated with sacrificial ceremonies in ancient times. So without further archeological evidence, they are left clueless as to why they exist. Perhaps it’s just a burial ground. Or perhaps, as we jested, the creators just wanted something pretty to look at--like a Feng Shui garden, or how the Japanese look at stones in their gardens, or how we create sculpture gardens. For whatever reason their original creation, they are now quite beautiful and seem to be a great feat of ancient engineering. We left here in search of a smaller stone circle called Achmore stone circle that is down the road from Callenish in the small village of Achmore. Found in 1981 by a peat farmer, these stones have been excavated and lie flat on the peat and bog, with only two of the stones remaining upright (albeit mostly buried in the peat). Most of the standing stones in these parts were found by peat farmers. Years—centuries, actually—of ground cover and peat had built up around the rocks till, in many cases, only the tips of these monolithic rocks remained above ground. It took peat farmers digging out peat to realize these were more than just rocky boulders—that there was a design to and for them and that the stones formed circles and straight lines. On our walk around Achmore we found a piece of peat and decided to take it with us to use in our fire back at Planasker. The smell of a peat fire is unforgettable and one of the scents that always reminds us of our time spent in Ireland. Peat is not used as much in the UK as it used to be. Coal is more readily available and so most people heat with coal. Far less people in the island used peat than we would have guessed. So when we got back we put the peat on the fire and prepared some tea. We wanted to call the US to speak with our son and so took a quick walk down to the local BT pay phone up the road (every village has one). This phone took no coins, only cards, so we spent about 10 minutes speaking to international operators trying to get the phone to call through to the US. After the third try we finally got through. We’ve noticed—through many attempts—that the BT pay phones here are tricky and we’ve had more than a few not let us call out except in case of emergency. Finding one that works is an effort in itself. So if you come here and need a phone consider a satellite phone or a SIM card for your cell phone. We tried to get both of these, but in our case our cell phone doesn’t work with a SIM card, and the satellite phone companies were unreliable this time of year to get the phone to us before our departure. Anyway, our last new experience for the day was with the notorious midges—those ferocious swarming bugs that bite and drive people near insane. We got out of the car today and were swarmed. I was wishing I had that Avon Skin-So-Soft everyone seems to think works against the buggers. I did reemerge outside later with some Bite Blocker and some pure essential oils by Young Living called Purification, and they didn’t seem to like the combination. We used both when we spend a month in Tanzania two years ago, and we did not get bit by a mosquito—not even one. Which was pretty remarkable in the wet season. Supposedly midges are worse here in the warmer months, but thankfully we were heading out of season so they weren’t bad. This was our first experience and our trip was almost done. So we were thankful our peaceful hikes thus far had not been interrupted by the annoying buzz of the swarm. Later in the evening Dave wanted to watch the opening match of the World Cup Rugby match between France and Argentina. It seemed very British to do and reminded my husband of when he played club rugby when at Oxford studying abroad. Dave relived “the good ol’ days” and then we ate another delicious 3 course meal and had our coffee while we watched another old movie. Then we realized it was terribly late and that we had to awaken tomorrow at 5 am to get to Stornoway for the ferry crossing at 7:15 am for Ullapool on the mainland. So we once more headed off to sleep.

Day Eight--Golf anyone?

As I can't write every day, this post is post-dated for Thursday, September 6, 2007. Pictures will follow...
We spent the morning at Planasker. We've really begun to feel at home here so we decided that, since we had planned to spend the whole of the afternoon in Harris and then dinner at Scarista House in Scarista, we would take it easy this morning, sleep in till 9:30, breakfast late, and then leave later. Leaving Marbig today for South Harris and its white sandy beaches we remarked that there really are no police, fire departments, emergency services or pharmacies in any village--only in the large towns, of which there are only two here--Stornoway and Tarbert. I guess you have to hope you never need them. So we sped down to Harris, this time getting to see the countryside down to Tarbert in light in stead of fog. Out of Tarbert we came upon a sign for the Scottish Episcopal Church-- which was the first Episcopal association of the Anglicans--which stepped out to offer an Episcopal charter to the Americans centuries ago. It's the first Episcopal church I've seen since being in Scotland--all we've seen thus far are Free Church Presbyterian churches. We snapped a shot and headed south to Luskentyre to see the famous white sands everyone speaks of. We were really shocked to see that the sands are indeed white--whiter than most sand we've seen--and that the place was gorgeous, with turquoise waters and pretty grassy dunes. It was, by all accounts, the complete opposite of the other side of the island and we were so excited to see this new place. We took the road to tis end, passing only a handful of lovely little cottages along our way. At a small car park we took the trail over the dune to the sea beyond and stretched our legs with a nice walk. But then we remembered we were very hungry and decided to hea d out again, this time in search of sustencance. We had remembered seeing a sign a few miles back for the SKOON Art Cafe, so we searched it out and found ourselves back on the other side of the island. Down a single track, winding road we came upon the cafre, and being thta it was crowded we sat and waited. In the meantime we checked out the really awful paintings hanging on the walls. It's a great place for a quick bite--sandwiched or soups or tea and desserts. Just forget you saw the paintings. We ate fast and drove like the wind. Driving out the sun was peeking through. It's so rocky on this side of the island that the old stone houses blend into the landscape. All around are skeletons of old houses with no roofs or windows. Just piles of rocks and heather growing on them. We decided that we'd listen to pour flook music CD--a mix of traditional and modern rhythms with lots of Scottish tin penny whistle and acoustic guitar. it's upbeat and seems to fit this landscape perfecctly. Another observation we've made today is that all the dogs here are black and white sheep dogs--resembling the Australian sheep dog. They are numerous, and everyone seems to have them. We always think we're seeing the same dog over and over, but i think they are just pretty much the only breed in the islands. Or so its seems. We wound ourselves down to Rodel at the foot of Harris where we stopped for St. Clements Church--built in 1549 and restored many times, it has been attributed to MacLeod of Harris. It is a non-working church held by the Trust (aka Scottish National Trust), but it houses three burial statues--one which is the most compete medieval sculpture in the Western Isles. It's a prostrate burial sculpture. I think people must have been really short back then, because their resemblances are short and all the door ways are short. It seems the church was little in use, if ever, and does not seem to have been built on a previous celtic site (like lots of other churches of its time). It is perched on a lovely spot at the southern tip of Harris, so when we left there we rounded out the island where the coast opens out of the rocky landscape to rolling grassy hills until finally we reached the west side of the island where the landscape changed dramatically....again. We're not talking about that many miles here, and there is so much change that happens in so little distance. In two seconds we were back in what looked like a very different world with white sandy beaches and sun. Yes, sun. Lots of it. So we pulled into Scarista--really just a sleepy little holiday village--and Dave spotted a golf course. The only one we've noticed so far--amazingly enough (this is Scotland, right?). Well, this was a very scaled down golf club. Dave really wanted to pass the time by playing 9 holes (as this was only a 9 hole course) of golf, so I obliged him and we went down to the "club house" (again, I use this wod loosley--really a converted train car) and "rented" gold clubs and paid the green fee in the honesty box (I kid you not). But since no one was there we decided to make the course ours. Now, let it be known that we are not golfers. But being that we were the only ones there and being that the outdoors were so enjoyable today (and David got some wild hare of an idea to play!), we decided to "pretend" we played and had a great time. Seriously enough, we did have some great long drives, and played remarkably well--most of the time. There were those few times we looked quite foolish. Really foolish. Just us two yanks making light of their very serious sport. It took us a little under two hours to play, then we headed over to Scarista House were we were to dine at 7:30. Scarista House was opened by Alison Johnson and her husband. She wrote a famous book about living in Harris entitled A House By The Shore. There's excerpts of it in The Road North. She sold Scarista House in the 90s I think, and I must say it's in need of a face lift. It's been able to live on its prestige and location for a long time. But for the cost to stay there per night you'd expect a bit more. It is a lovely old house though, in a perfectly situated location overlooking the sea with hilly fields of green all around. After a quick peek around they let us change our clothes and freshen up for dinner. Then we just hung out in the drawing room for a while and had tea and Dave read while I made drawings of local plant life (I like to paint the flowers from places I visit). Around 7 or 7:30 others joined us in the drawing room and everyone talked and had drinks before dinner. There were 5 couples gathered, all excepting us were either Brit or Scot. We had great banter and the conversation varied. I think we had enjoyed each other so much we had hoped we'd eat dinner together at the same table. But they had us in two separate rooms, and at different tables. Halfway through the meal we all started talking to each other again as if we were at the same table. It was enjoyable. Dinner, however, was less so--mainly because we had to do the "undressing" of our small local lobsters, here called Langoustines. I'm not kidding, they brought a plate full of them to us and without metal claw crackers had to do it with our hands. Not bad if you are expecting this. But this is a set dinner as it changes nightly and is whatever you get. For the cost they should have been cracked for us. But I'm digressing now. Let's just say I wasn't expecting that out of a fancy dinner. The conversation salvaged the meal. After dinner we all returned again to the drawing room for coffee and had a wonderful time discussing the differences in sport in the US and in the UK. I found out about a game I never knew of called Shinty--originated in Ireland, but a very celtic game. It's a kind of very violent field hockey for men. Seems to be popular here. One of the very kindly older Scot women asked me if I'd had Haggis and if I'd liked it. She seemed to REALLY want us to like it, and I assured her we'd had it and liked it, which seemed to please her. We were hesitant to leave such a lively gathering, but being that it was now nearing 10:30pm, we knew we had a long journey home to Lewis (over an hour north). So we headed off once more--this time in the dark. It was our first night to drive on single lane roads in complete darkness. Luckily it was a crystal clear night, so it made it easy to get back to Marbig. Had we had fog I'm afraid it would have taken us quite a few hours to return. Single lane roads in the dark in fog would really be a nightmare--cars coming head on towards you. Yikes. We had been warned though that sheep like to sleep on the road at night, particularly when it's a warm night and the midges are out. Being on the road limits midge exposure (midges like the moors). So sure enough sheep after sheep just lay themselves in the middle of the road for sleep. It was comical. Some of them move and some don't. Tells you how stupid sheep are. Anyway, we made it back and headed for bed.

Day Seven--Searching for the White Sands

This post is post-dated for Wednesday, September 5, 2007.

Planasker school house was the original school house for all levels in these parts. In the 1960s it was shut and had since fallen derelict. But thanks to Martin and heather Malcolm, Planasker is now a thriving house and bed and breakfast. Martin noted that the whole of the place was a ruin when he spotted it and through many years they've been able to make it look as it was always inhabited. It's a lovely place now, with big views out to the loch and hills. It seems they have spared no expense to make this home welcoming and homey. Currently there is only one room for hire, so we had the whole of the bed and breakfast side to ourselves. it was like holiday in our own cottage, as the guest quarters are expansive with a drawing room, dining room, a library/study, and a loft area, not to forget the bedroom and bath. I highly recommend this lovely bed and breakfast if you ever find yourself in need of respite and peace in the south lochs of Lewis. Heather and Malcolm prepare fabulous breakfasts and scrumptuous dinners. This morning we had a most unusal grapefruit prepared soaking the grapefruit half over night in Heather honey (honey infused with the Heather flower), then grilled face up in the broiler. It's warm and delicious. It was a divine concotion, and though outstanding, she has prepared us quite a few rivals to it! Heather grew up in Stornoway on Lewis, and Martin in Glasgow. They decided to move back here, which she said was unexpected. Most Hebridean native youth leave for the "bright lights" of the city and never return. Marbig is set in a strangely lunar landscape. It feels like entering another world, so unlike what we are used to. The great lumpy earth is scratched to the bone revealing bald rocks with tough green and Heather splotches bordering them. In these parts, as in most of the islands, fishing and crofting are still alive. Marbig is more of a fishing village, but raising sheep and farming hay and peat the traditional way are done throughout the isles. Peat is farmed in a most unusal way, by digging down a foot or so into the earth and pulling out the peaty ground in rectangular lumps. This will continue on a straight path and when the grassy earth grows back over the exposed earth, it will scar the earth with a straight lip which appears to be a "step" in the earth. Lewis itself is an expansive island, but Heather seems to think the total inhabitants of all the islands is around 20,000. We think our home town is guite small with a toatl county wide population of around 50,000, but she was shocked to know we came from such a place with so many people. Both Lewis and Harris are known for their famous white sand beaches not ulike the Caribbean. On a clear day there the sea is turquoise and calm and clear and the sand sparkling white. it's a most unusual sight for Scotland, but wholly enjoyable. The west side of both islands is where you'll find the sandy beaches. In fact, Lewis has come to be synonymous with surfing. Believe it or not, die hard surfers find Lewis has some of the best waves in Europe. The other side of Harris and Lewis, the east sides, are rocky and unearthly. Dave had the same experience upon viewing the landscape here as he did when he first saw Joshua Tree in college. Both are strange and lunar and enchanting. Today is a warm rainy day. Clouds again fill the sky, so we head out for Stornoway to buy Harris Tweed at the Kenneth MacKenzie Factory Store out towards the airport. In a small part of the factory they keep the "remnants" of larger orders and sell them to the public. There were 4 rows of floor to ceiling bolts and remnants of tweed, and I was in fabric heaven. I told Dave that if he spent money on whiskey I got to spend money on tweed--and so I did. We bought so much we had to go into town to buy a bag to ship back with us to the states. There are so many variations in color and pattern of tweed. Harris is renowned the world over as THE place to get tweed. Tweed makers in Harris still make tweed the old fashioned way in their homes. Each Harris Tweed earns the right to don the Harris Orb label, which ensure the tweed has indeed been created by hand in Harris. Some of the tweeds we bought were very old, made years ago, but they looked new to us. I like to buy things with history to them and things made by hand. It's the personal touch so lost today in a mechanized technologically advanced industrial world. There is still something comforting about someone deciding to begin a new fabric without use of a manufacturing plant. Since most tweed comes from here, I was in heaven to find tweeds that in the US Ralph Lauren would have been marked up to extraordinary expense. In fact, the salesman showed me where they keep their Ralph Lauren tweeds. We ended up spending a good part of the day here, so by the time we left we were tired and decided to head back for a nap and some tea. It reminded us we are on vacation and can relax more than we do anything else. So back we headed. On the way we discussed the unfortunate news that the new owner of the Kenneth MacKenzie factory was changing the way tweed was done on the islands by limiting production to about 4 different patterns. The salesman had told us his plans affected everyone in the industry, and as such many of these lovely patterns that fill the factory store will never be seen again. Tweed is not as in demand as it once was as it's been in decline since the early 90s. Not to mention that in the US people think it's too expensive. So by limiting tweed production to 4 patterns the new owner will ensure the longevity of the patterns in suits and jackets. It's a sad turn of events, really, when an industry begins to die out. We got back and had a lovely afternoon reading and napping. We walked around Marbig a bit. I kept thinking of something I had read about Marbig--that they once had a "seer" in this town who could forecast tragedy--and he was always correct. In a town this small, he wasn't the guy you wanted to run into around the village! We came back to sit by a roaring fire. Heather served us a 3 course dinner about 7:30 and we stayed up to have our coffee and watch two Sherlock Holmes mysteries by the fireside. Being as the two stories were set in Scotland, it made it all the more an enjoyable evening. Today I had read in The Road North an excerpt about Lewis by Bettina Selby where she rightly refers to Lewis as "a marvelous but fragile world on the edge of a wild ocean."
It does seem a fragile world and the ocean is always out there to remind me that its fickle temperment has ruled these people's live for centuries.

Day Six--Over the sea we'll go to the Hebrides

As I was unable to post this yesterday, this is post-dated for Tuesday, September 4, 2007. Pictures to post later.
I stopped counting Land Rovers days ago. there are so many here. And rightly so. If you need on e anywhere, this is the place. the Defender is Dave's favorite, so he's been eyeing every unusual one he's nver seen in America--like the truck style Defender that has a hard top you can attach on the truck bed to make it into an SUV. Today after check out we headed north towards Uig on the Totternish peninsular--our last stop until catching the ferry for the Hebrides at 5:30 pm. We wished well to our fine hostess, Anne Houston, at Toravaig house and decided to make our first stop an art exhibition by Glasgow artist Pam Carter just up the road. Her work is superb and she really has a way of using oil paints to draw out the beauty of a place. They are pricey by our standards--those being Americans with a declining dollar--but I'm sure for natives or Europeans they are well priced. One painting cuaght my eye of a dark foreboding sky and glowing white traditional homes in the foreground. It's a scene repeated here often when the sun comes out to bless a small bit of land with its rays while darkness looms all around. It's a magical moment and she caught it so well. This got us talking with the art gallery owners about the tradition of the white houses here. It seems that in the oldest days of these homes, the paint was made of a mixture of lyme and water, giving off a milky appearance. Later innovations introduced sand into the mix which provided Scots with a more durable exterior against the elements. Now, of course, there are a plethora of synthetic paints available to the consumer, the hardiest of which are used on the lighthouses (for obvious reasons). After we had been back on the road for a while we stopped for petrol and bought 2 CDs for our further journeys. One CD was a compilation of flook music, very popular right now. The other was by Scot singer Kate Rusby entitled "Little Lights". Kate's CD is a real stunner and just perfect as our day's accomaniment. It's a gray day today, the air full of sky. The name "Skye" atually means "Isle of Mist", and on days as today one reckons it was rightly named. The air is thick and wet and there is no difference between the sky and the air. Today there is only a thich veil drawn over all of this island. It's as if the sea is picked up and dispersed in the air. So when we drive north out of Portree towards the Old Man of Storr (which in old Norse means "big" or "great")--a very unusual rock formation--it was cloaked in a misty fog. Missing it, and not wanting to venture through the wet fog to find it, we decided to pass it by. The sea came out before us on our right as we moved north towards the Quirang. Dave commented that he's never liked the sea so much, being that it seems so uncertain, so vast, so indefineable. He said he'd learn to sail just to conquer it, which seemed like a very masculine comment. Mastery of nature, or nature will master you? Indeed it is immense, for its sheer distance alone is enough to send the mind into thoughts of isolation, emptiness and Kantian awe. But its depth is the most terrifying to me. The true last frontier, excepting other galaxies. So deep that the tallest mountains in the world lie in the deep mountian range between North America and Europe. I look out and see a terrifying immense abyss. I don't think I could stomach being a sailor. With this racing through my mind we reached the look out for point for Kilt Rock. We stopped for pics. It's a rock formation that looks like the ripples in a kilt. Quick pics and we're off to find a bathroom. We stopped in Staffin (a small village where there are dinosaur fossiles) at a convenient store/restaurant/community hall. Almost every village has a community hall. It's where they meet to discuss, as well as have their dances. Then we headed towards the Quirang, one of the most dramatic areas of geological formations on Skye. In Gaelic Auriang means "round fold or pen" and comes from quoyrand or kvirand--an old Norse word. It was created by a succession of the largest landslides in Britain. According to a tourist guide, "Huge blocks of rock slippd down-slope when Jurassic sediments buckled under the weight of the basalt plateau which lies above." It is visually stunning and makes for great photos...when you can see it. Today its hidden. My plan had been to hike it as far as "the Needle" formation or "the Prison".But with the Skye spitting on us and winds pushing every which way, we decided against it. instead, we drove up to the car park and took pictures when the clouds parted enough to grab some pictures of "the Needle". Then we turned around and headed to Flodigarry to visit Flodigarry Country house hotel where we had (a terrible) lunch.I wouldn't advise this place for food--only for tea in their drawing room. The food was terrible and overpriced. It was the first bad meal we've had since we arrived. While lunching i got back into The Road North--in particular the Alexander Smith excerpt on Skye. It was very amusing to see what another traveller's impresions were of the place over 100 years ago. It's been a great companion book on our journey. Dave picked up The Financial Times earlier in the day and pulled it out to read. After warming up a bit we headed off north to make the journey complete to Uig. On the way we passed Duntulm castle, which lies in ruins on land which had once served as an iron age broch, a Pictish fort and Viking stronghold The MacLeods and MacDonalds each had their turns at the castle before it fell into disuse. Just before we had arrived a tour bus unloaded at the site, and because of rain and my not wanting to trapse up with 30ish other people or so, we decided to keep on in the car to Uig. Caledonian MacBrayne has the ferry monopoly around here, so we headed onto their gigantic ship, left the car in the hull and headed up top the shop for tea in the cafeteria. Back in Portree I had picked up some sea sickness medicine, remembering two previous "cruises" when i was fairly green the whole of the journey. Two hours passed uneventful as Dave and I read. We came up upon Harris around 7:40pm and with the deep fog clinging to the sea there suddenly emerged very green patches of earth spotting rocky outcroppings. It was a treeless earth made of small hills and little islands.I couldn't help but think of the hardiness of the people who live here. It reminded me alot of the film The Shipping News, which takes place, for the most part, in New Foundland (populated in most part by Scot and Irish immigrants). A rugged hardy people to match such a place, where it seems the wind must howl over the land and the people fight for their right to live there. After disembarking we headed north out of North Harris towards Lewis. Tonight our journey was to end at Planasker Old School Bed and Breakfast in Marbig on Lewis. The drive was difficult as the fog was so thick we couldn't see the road out in front of us until we reached Lewis. From there our partly revealed guest began to show itself as an other wordly landscape of big rocks and earth clinging to them. We were later to find out that part of the 2001 Space Odyssey movie was filmed in this lunar landscape on the east of the island. We drove into what seemed like the farthest reaches of the world as we made the approach to Planasker. Our journey ended at the head of the loch in front of Planasker.We stepped inside for a delicious homemade late supper and then tucked ourselves in bed for the evening. Today's journey had seemed like the longest. But this land held great possibility for discovery.

Day Five--To the whiskey and the Cuillins

As I am unable to write every day, I am post-dating this post for Monday, September 3, 2007. Pictures to follow...
At breakfast we noticed a common theme on most Scottish breakfast menus: kippers and smoked fishes--Haddock and Salmon to be exact. When you are near the sea, prepare for seafood to be a main staple of all meals. So it is with breakfast. Kippers-- for those of you unfamiliar as of yet--are fish. I've already eatien so much seafood, what's a few more salmon breakfasts? Okay, so breakfast brought with it talk of last night and the second great conversation we had with the Harley-riding Dutch couple. They own a business in Belgium, which led us to spend lots of time absorbed in exchanging disgruntled gab about taxes. More than this topic, though, we talked about motorcycles (again) and discussed the mertis of touring Skye on a Harley on a day such as yesterday. Really, if you are a motorcyclist, this is a truly lovely place to tour. The roads are (generally) good, but bad weather can creep up suddenly and change the quality of the drive. So be well prepared. Today we were going to go out sailing in the Toravaig House owners new sailing vessel. Only one problem: the pump was broke. Which was a real shame, because today was gloriously sunny and would have been absolutely smashing enjoyed from the sea. But so it was not meant to be. Pumps take days to fix when you live on an island and have to order the part from the mainland and wait for it to arrive. And we can't know for sure if the pump excuse is really true, but we were not going sailing, even if it was not true.So we decided to follow plan B and make our way south on the Sleat peninsular to Armadale castle. We arrived at Armadale at opening and made our way on to the grounds before anyone else had arrived. It's an absolute "must stop" if you are visiting Skye, because this place is gorgeous and has the best museum around. Bar none.
There are the ruins of the old Armadale Castle, home of--but who else?--the MacDonald chiefs. A beautiful shell of a speciman, we walked around the castle, and took in the views out over the sea towards the highlands (Mallaig to be exact). Then we walked around the best castle garden grounds we've seen. Well kept and well planted, the grounds are a marvelous collection of trees and plants from all over the world--aoo fo wich seem to like the weather here.Beyond this is the Clan MacDonald Center--an homage to Clan MacDonald throughout the world. The most beautifully exhibited little museum I've EVER seen, Dave and I had a great time taking in the full exhibit and learning all about the clan MacDonald and Scottish history, in general. Like the interesting tidbit about one of Napoleon's officers being called the French MacDonald--having been a second generation Frenchman of Scot heritage. Who'd have thought? And I wasn't very "up" on my Jacobite history, and the exhibition filled me in. I learned about the clan changes that came about 200 years ago from the feudal system to the crofting, or farming, system. The lands worked by clansmen for their chiefs were becoming too crowded, so the chiefs divided up land an gave families their own land to work. Hence the birth of crofting. It was the beginning of the breakdown of the clan system becuase clansmen had more freedom and were more independant from one another. They no longer relied on the chief and each other for basic needs. Anyway, we also learned that the name MacDonald came from the grandson of the famous celtic hero Somerled. Somerled's grandson's name was Donald, and "mac" means "son of". There was a large immigraiton of MacDonalds to North Carolina in the mid 1700s. From what I can glean from the exhibition, taxes were becoming more oppressive and th epopulation too large, so people left in droves and headed for a new, uncertain life in America (though some left for Canada and others for Australia). The Argyl Colony was established in North Carolina and even the famed Jacobean heroine Flora MacDonald (of Bonnie Prince Charlie fame) made her way from Skye and ended up in North Carolina. She and her husband cultivated a plantation there until their loyalities to the British crown led North Carolina authorities to "reposess" , as it were, the plantation sending them, eventually, back to Scotland were she later died. Dave and I remember having seen a painting by an 18th or 19th Century artist done of a Cherokee Indian Chief in Scottish clan garb. While in this museum we came across lineage trees, one of which showed that a MacDonald clan chief had married a Cheroke princess. I had spent years wondering about that particular painting and now the mystery was solved with a conclusion more interesting than I could have imagined! So we left Armadale with heads full of newly found knowledge and headed out toward the much anticipated Talisker distillery.Talisker is Skye's only distillery. in fact, most of Scotland's distilleries are not on islands (excepting Islay which has many of the most peaty versions of whiskey) but on the mainland. David had been waiting to visit here for months. Talisker lies on Loch Harport in the Minginish peninsular area of Skye. It was traditionally known for its "sweet water" which came forth from a plethora of underground springs. Many people historically noted the "curative" ( I use this word loosely) powers of the water. But this idea stuck and gave the future whiskey--which used the water in its making--its name "water of life" or aqua vitae, in Latin. In all whiskey production the most important ingredient is the quality of the spring water used. The other ingredients used in the creation of a whiskey are barley and yeast, though (in my opinion) peat is the ingredient which really makes a whiskey. Peat is a coal like piece of earth dug out of the ground about 1 foot down. It has a very smokey scent, and it is this peat which is smoked to give whiskey its smokey, earthy flavor. Talisker is one of the peaty whiskey and one of my favorites. I'm not much for whiskey, in general, but I love Talsiker because it's made well and tastes fabulous with a splash of spring water added in. If you've never had it, try it. It's like drinking in the land. It's unlike anything you'll ever drink. So we lined up for the tour. It was another "not to be missed" stop on Skye and being that we had never been to a distillery before, we found that we thoroughly enjoyed our tour and learning how whiskey is made. It's a very intense process, so I'll leave it for you to learn for yourself. But i will say that the end product is delicious (if not truly the aqua vitae). After a wee tasteing we remembered we were hungry and so headed down to The Old Inn pub in the village of Carbost just below Talisker for some fish and chips. It's a great food stop if you are here around lunch or dinner. After thoroughly filling up we got back in our trusted Vauxhall and headed for the Cuillin mountain range, just beyond us. At the recommendation of our receptionist/host at Toravaig House, we headed down the one lane road to Glenbrittle beach at the base of the Cuillins.
The name Cuillins came from the mythic Irish giant Cuchullin. Over the years the name became Cuillin, though many locals still refer to the mountains as Cuchullins. The Cuillins are the larest mountain range in the UK. Their peaks are dark, jagged and dramatic, and usually covered in a veil of fog. Today, however, we were unusally graced with really warm sunshine and no clouds over the range.I was able to snap some lovely shots. We were eager to stretch our legs so we parked at the sea shore and took the VERY well marked trail up to the base of the Black Cuillins. There's a natural dividing line between the red and black Cuillins, being the natural color of each. One is more blackish gray, the other more rusty colored. Though locals call the red Cuillins the red hills, and don't really consider them part of the Cuillins themself. We headed towards the darker and more dramatic mountains of the black Cuillins. The trail was lovely and had ben well prepared by a trail service like TRAILS in the US. So, no sinking in the bogs! Yeah! Dry feet and terrific views, lots of sun. I couldn't be happier.We were determined to hike only till we wanted to hike no more, and so the hike was free and easy and our elevation gain was splendid. Glenbrittle beach below is a terrifically large beach and the scenery around the Cuillins stunning in its own right.In Colorado, one spends so much time hiking in to a mountian base in order to climb it, but here in Skye the mountains fall at your feet, so hiking them is easy--no wasted time hiking to them. You are there. After our hike we got back into the car and headed home for dinner and rest. We dined at the sister hotel to Travaig House--Duisdale House Hotel. In the midst of refurbishment, the food was delicious none the less. They seated us by the window, in their restaurant's solarium, where we had views of their lovely garden and out to the highland mountains across the sea. We had the best mussels we've ever had and a "to die for" duck confit which I could have eaten a bowl of. It was yummy. A great conclusion to our day. We curled into bed bellies full and warm ready for a good night of sleep.