Isle of Skye, June 2006

I was casually flipping through a magazine when my eye caught a comment by documentary filmmaker, Leslie Woodhead: “The wildness of a place with four kinds of weather in a single hour allows me to forget everything,” he remarked. Woodhead, the piece continued, was referring to Isle of Skye, Scotland. It is his escape destination of choice.
Curious, I quickly discovered an official Isle of Skye webpage. It featured photos of beautiful mountains, deep fjords and striking sunsets, which, as a photographer, held immediate appeal. Furthermore, the calendar of events on the official Isle of Skye webpage said that the last weekend of June, Portree, the largest of the Skye village-towns, would host the Skye Pipe Band Festival. That was all I needed to know. I am not given to contemplation. I am a man of action. “We’re going to Scotland,” I announced to my wife.
A direct six and a half hour flight from Newark to Edinburgh delivered us excited and ready for adventure. Setting out from Edinburgh in our rental car, driving on the left, shifting left and managing to temper my panic while entering the first roundabout, we escaped the rush of city traffic and headed north toward the Scottish Highlands. For the next six hours we would enjoy one of the most beautiful drives on earth. One on-line writer likened its grandeur to the automobile equivalent of the trek to Everest base camp.
The southern edge of the Highlands is framed by The Trossachs, a region marked by natural beauty, wildlife and history. Sir Walter Scott’s historical novel Rob Roy was set here, as was Defoe’s Highland Rogue, both fictionalized accounts Rob Roy Macgregor (1671-1734), leader of Clan Gregor. I saw no evidence of Scott or Defoe, but Liam Neeson as Rob Roy, The Movie, posters abound. You can get an official Clan Gregor kilt at any number of places in the Highlands should the mood to go native strike.
We were heading first to Fort William and would be passing through Glen Coe, Scotland’s most famous glen. The approach to the glen is awe-inspiring, slicing through a valley bed framed by mountain grandeur and waterfalls. Mist hangs on the horizon. Blackface sheep graze. Cars pulled over to the side of the road and people just sat taking it in, ourselves included. It is a profound countryside and mother to centuries of mist-born legend and myth.
Fort William, on the shores of Loch Linnhe, has an outback feel, like a place on the edge of civilization. Indeed, a century or so past, it was. It is quant and charming with a main pedestrian thoroughfare. Lunch was by the harbor at the Grog & Gruel pub and was my introduction to the varied and wonderful world of Scottish ales. We walked the town a bit and I stopped into a camera store to replace the binoculars I’d forgotten to pack. Peaking out of my jacket was the lens of my Leica. The shopkeeper noticed it and complimented me. “Nice camera,” she said. Then she admonished me for hiding it, a habit I have cultivated from travel in less friendly places. “No one’s ’gonna bother you ‘ere,” she said, gesturing expansively, as if I had crossed to some northern Nirvana of trust and respect.
It was raining when we pulled into Mallaig our first evening. We checked into The Mooring House, a non-descript bed and breakfast overlooking the harbor. The proprietress greeted us. “We haven’t seen many Americans since 9/11,” she said. Mallaig is the last land-based stop before the western islands. It’s where you get the ferry to Skye.
It was still raining the next morning when we woke and it seemed to be picking up.

The latitude of Skye is north of Moscow. In the summer the sun rises at 4:30 and stays in the sky until 11pm. The light is golden and clear, unless, of course it is raining, or misty. If its not rainy or misty, just wait. Skye comes from the Norse word Ski meaning cloud and Ey, meaning island. “You don’t come to Scotland for the weather,” Bruce said to me that morning. He was on the dock, in the rain, smoking, checking out the town as well. He was on holiday, up from the lowland. “People don’t get up early around here, do they?” he said. The town was dead quiet. We were the only ones about. Even the fishing boat crews had yet to post. “Let me introduce you to a Scottish tradition,” he said, moving a few steps to the side. “Stand behind something.” A wall blocked the rain some. I was noticing that my shoes were leaking and my feet were wet. Bruce said some people get used to wet feet. I guessed it to be another Scottish tradition.
Our mood was dampening with the weather. We drove our car onto the 9:30 ferry and set out promptly. I went up top to take a few pictures while my wife sought dry quarters below. It is a 45-minute trip to the island, crossing the Sound of Sleat. The weather was beginning to clear as we landed.
If you look at Skye on a map you see an ink blot of land, stretching out in roughly four peninsula quarters. The ferry delivered us to the lower west quarter and we set out toward Portree, two or three hours north. It had been suggested to me to cross over the peninsula and take in the view of Cullin sound. It was a good detour, as the water opened up to us and black-faced sheep stared in wonder. We stared back. Rolling along, we stopped for tea and crumpets, made a donation to a local animal shelter, getting us a warm hug from the shelter keeper and, most importantly, we saw blue sky for the first time in two days.
Arriving in Portree we found a beautiful harbor town awaiting us. The sun was low in the sky and the streets were filled with what appeared to be a solid mix of tourists and locals. There were interesting looking restaurants and shops and somewhere in town a bagpipe played. It was late in the afternoon, but the sun was still holding low in the sky. It was a beautiful introduction to Skye, Scotland’s third most popular tourist destination. Friday was the beginning of the pipe festival. The clans convened around noon to tune up and prepare. Each clan of pipers consisted of 20 to 30 individuals. It was a multi-generational affair, seasoned pipers mixed in with new. I know the bagpipe must be a difficult instrument, but I had little appreciation for the demands it makes on the new piper. Young men, bag under arm, were tuning their instrument with full red-face extended cheeks, looking not unlike I image one must look just before drowning, holding your breath, eyes bulging, just before release. Only these guys had no release, just a gasp of air, a punch to the bag with an elbow and more blowing. The older pipers walked around and helped, checking and adjusting and encouraging the young performers. Occasionally they delivered a punch to the bag, as if hoping to wake it up bellowing.
At noon the clans mustered and began the march to the town square. The weather was holding. The sidewalks were lined with locals and a few tourists. Shops were closed and every face was smiling—except the pipers, who were marching with every degree of seriousness and intent a person could hope to exhibit. I confess I misted up as they passed and I was not the only one.
We set out to explore a bit more of Skye the next day, heading north out of Portree. Skye is a windswept landscape with few trees. Half the population speaks Gaelic. The Norse and their ancestors have occupied the island since 800 AD and there is a feeling around every bend in the road, if you peer down over the cliff, you will see a Viking ship bobbing on the tide. I was in Tierra del Fuego a few years ago, another island extreme. Skye shares its ruggedness of both land and people. There is something mysterious and, to me, enchanting about people living if places on the edge of the earth.
There is a museum on the north end of Skye, The Skye Museum of Island Life. It is an outdoor museum replicating the thatched-roof existence of the ancient people of the island. Imagining sitting around the peat fire during the long and dark winters, I could envision the invention of Scotch Whiskey. How else can you explain the painstaking discovery and decades-long manufacturing of that particular refreshment?
The island was secured to Scottish landmass in 1995 when the Skye Bridge was completed. We left the island across the bridge, on what would be the lower eastern quarter of Skye. Setting south we avoided the Nessie-loving crowds and tourists of Inverness, making a stop in Pitochry for lunch at the Moulin Inn, an atmospheric little inn just out of town. It was Sunday afternoon and we shared a bench with a local gentleman nursing a pint of ale. He introduced his sheepdog, Midge, who lay at his feet, but not himself. He said he had left the area once, went all the way to Edinburgh, but came back after a while. “ ‘e realized what ‘e had ‘ere in Pitochry.” He was encouraged that more young people were staying in the area. Two days earlier terrorists had been foiled in an attack at Glasgow airport, not without some destruction. “You people really got it,” he said, referring to 9/11. “That was really something, it was. Now this. We used to be the best small country in the world. And now this.” From his body language, his thick arms folded across his extended belly, and the glint in his eye, I reasoned that this man had no tolerance for touchy-feely approaches to world solutions. The worldview from a pub in Pitochry, Scotland, is a singular thing and particular to a Sunday afternoon with a sheep dog asleep at your feet. What stays with me is his opinion that Scotland used to be the best small country in the world. That is debatable, of course, there are many contenders to such a title. But Scotland is in the running, most certainly in the running.