Over the Mountains to Skye

It didn’t take us long to reach the Isle of Skye, located off the north west coast of Scotland, departing from the south coast of England. First, we drove to London Gatwick airport (30 minutes), then we flew by Easyjet to Inverness Airport (one and a half hours), finally, we hired a car and drove to Broadford on the south of the island (two and a half hours). Add on the waiting time and it was still only about seven to eight hours – not bad!   

We only planned to stay a day (two evenings) on Skye as it was a special visit to attend the funeral of my late Auntie Morag, RIP. My mother was one of ten siblings and Auntie Morag, the widow of my late Uncle Harry, RIP, was the last of that particular line of siblings and their spouses. She died at the grand old age of 98.  

Leaving Inverness, we motored across the north-west Highlands, speeding along deserted twisting roads, past bare dun-coloured moorland, occasional still lochs, remains of ancient forests and newer plantations of fir and spruce. Higher still we climbed, Sgurr Mór in the distance, over 1,000 meters high, patches of snow glistening ahead of us.

Then the road began to dip and we slowly descended the other side of the ridge. It was late Spring and the heather has not yet gained the rich purple colour that would carpet the Highlands in autumn.

However, the dull colours were a perfect foil for the brilliant yellow flowers of the gorse bushes, which grew in profuse clumps along the sides of the road.

(note to self: must clean the lens on my camera!)

All too soon we reached Kyle of Lochalsh, the mainland opposite Skye where the Skye Bridge, built just over 20 years ago, now affords easy access to the island. The view from the top of the bridge is stunning with several islands sprinkled below, sparkling grey-blue waters that stretch into the distance, the mist-wrapped bulk of Skye before us – alas, the poor driver can only manage a brief glimpse before he has to wrench his gaze back to the road.

In Skye, we drove past the Cuillin Hills, again topped with snow, as we drove to the main town, Portree, for dinner. It’s very pretty, particularly at the quiet, sleepy harbour with its pastel-coloured houses and the sturdy pier designed by the famous road and canal builder Thomas Telford a couple of hundred years ago.

 

The little town has the only secondary school on the island - which I once attended - and is the island’s cultural and business centre. The name Portree is supposedly from the Gaelic, Port Righ, the King’s Port, commemorating the visit to Skye in 1540 of King James V of Scotland.

The place was rather busy with early-season tourists, mainly Europeans but also Americans and a substantial number of Asians. In fact, there were queues for tables at several of the restaurants. Sadly, my curry-influenced mussel sauce drowned the flavour of the shellfish while the salmon steak managed to be both overdone and underdone in parts. Maybe the town’s culinary reputation is why King James never came back after 1540...    

The funeral was held in a small church in the north of the island, a place of small crofts, scattered white houses and wandering sheep. It overlooked the blue Minch and in the distance the grey outline of the islands of the Outer Hebrides. Despite a forecast of showers or constant heavy rain, the sky was filled with wispy clouds and the sun occasionally broke through - although the wind off the sea was bitterly cold.

In deference to the lack of Gaelic-speakers among the visiting mourners, the sung praise was in English; the words from the beautiful Scots Metrical Psalter of 1650, Psalms 23 and 121. The two Presenters led the singing, their voices strong, the tempo slow – very slow – lending a majesty, authority and power to the words. As usual in the Church of Scotland, we stood to sing and sat for the prayers, the eulogy and the homily.

Then, the long convoy of cars followed the hearse to the graveyard, a ten minute journey. We stood in the gusting cold wind, the words of the minister snatched from his mouth as we strained to hear. A final ‘Our Father’ and Auntie Morag was buried beside her husband, near to other MacKinnon siblings, and a couple of hundred yards away from where Flora MacDonald, saviour of Bonnie Prince Charlie, was buried 225 years ago. There is in that dust a richer dust concealed...

Afterwards we repaired to the Uig Hotel for tea, sandwiches and cake, and I met cousins I had never seen, or had last seen in infancy and could not recall - or had not seen for more than 45 years in at least one case! No wonder we lingered over the meal...then it was back to our hotel in Broadford.

 

Skye’s reputation for food was also restored that evening, We ate in a little restaurant opposite the Dunollie Hotel in Broadford. Skye is justly famous for its seafood and we enjoyed a platter of scallops, mussels, crayfish, langoustines and squid, accompanied by a glass of dry white Spanish wine and topped off by a generous helping of cranachan, a traditional Scottish desert, an alternative to trifle, made of toasted oatmeal, whipped cream, honey and raspberries.

I slept so well that when the hotel’s alarum system went off at 6am – a guest had mistakenly set it off by using a hairdryer too near the fire sensor – I didn’t mind the early rise and greeted the other befuddled guests milling around in the lobby, variously dressed in pjs under coats and other night attire...    

A couple of hours later we rose for breakfast.

 

 

Our hotel's restaurant was almost at the water's edge, facing Broadford Bay, overlooking a small pier. The tide was out and we could see the small island of Pabay a couple of miles away, once notorious in the sixteenth century as a haunt of thieves and cut-throats, now more famous for its unique geology, its stamps and the ruins of a thirteenth chapel. Then, it was time to leave...