Eilean Donan, a Free(zing) Facial, and Seeing the Sun Set Behind Skye

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25th August 2005
Kyleakin, Isle of Skye.
Day 3 of Skye High Haggis Tour.

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Okay, time for confessions. As I write this it is not, in fact, August 25th 2005. It is no longer even 2005. This delay is in no way a reflection of my enjoyment of the trip; it was fantastic and I loved it. But I work from 8am to 9 or 10pm every day of every week with only a two-hour afternoon break. Somehow I just never got around to writing about August, or about the holidays that followed, including Europe, Guy Fawkes, Christmas and New Year's. So instead I'll list the tour itinerary of each day and try my best to keep anecdotes short, but as you can tell by yesterday's tomb, that's not my strongpoint.
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Haggis Tour Day 2

*Carbisdale Castle
to
*Cromertie Firth
to
*Dornach Firth
then
*Through Inverness
to
*Loch Ness (nessie dance; don't ask!)
then
*Through Drumnadrochit
past
*Five Sisters of Kintail (beautiful)
to
*Eilean Donan Castle, near Dornie (perfect fairy-tale castle. I want it)
to
*Skye bridge (circled roundabout 6 times)
to
*Isle of Skye: Broadford (lunch in carpark overlooking ocean) >>> Talisker Distillery, shores of Loch Harport (they seem obsessed with whiskey) >>> Glen Brittle >>> Coire of the Spoil (a.k.a. the Fairy Falls, very pretty) >>> Sligachan River (fountain of youth) >>> Kyleakin (wandered up to Caisteal Maol and to the memorial cross for Skye sailors).

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Eilean Donan Castle

Situated on Loch Duich near Dornie, Eilean Donan Castle is perhaps the most adorable castle in all of Britain. My breath literally caught upon that first glimpse of the wee fortress on its tiny islet, settled in the midst of wide, glittering waters, an arching stone causeway it's only connection to the mainland.

The delight did not fade upon closer inspection. Having bought our tickets, everybody made their way, at their own pace and between sporadic photo sessions, across the lovely stone bridge and into Eilean Donan in search of the exhibition room and our guide. I paused outside to run my palms along the old stone walls and slide my fingers into the thin arrow slits before hesitantly passing beneath the daggered edge of the portcullis, which hovered menacingly above the entryway, and through the tiny inner opening within the large wooden doors. Inside, despite the close quarters, there was a startling profusion of jewel-green foliage clinging to the sloping walls and surfaces. A steep, shallow staircase climbed out of the bottle-neck-like space and then turned back into a second-story doorway above our heads.

Awaiting us inside was perhaps the most boring instructor, teacher, or guide I have ever met. It was not that she was necessarily a dull person or that the subject was dreadful. But her voice! You would occasionally perk up at the mention of something that interests you, only to be buffeted by her droning, lifeless recitation back into the kind of politely mindless attention that, after the first ten minutes, has you digging your fingernails into your palms to prevent releasing the frustrated outburst of energy you can feel lodged in the back of your throat like a tennis ball. And all the while, Lynne stood there eyeing us with that look that all mothers get; that, I understand, but you had damned well better be polite or else! look. And the room was in just such a shape, the guide in just such a position, that you could not sneak away without her seeing.

What I little did manage to take in was that the original foundations date from 1220, when it was built as a defence against the Vikings. But the castle has been attacked, razed, and rebuilt so often throughout its history that the rest of it dates from several different periods.

After a good thirty minutes (or more) of that we were freed, and with some insincere clapping, sprinted away to explore. I escaped up some very narrow stairs and found myself in what I think was the Banqueting Hall, a large room dominated by an enormous wooden banqueting table (could have been a clue). Shields and painted portraits decorated the walls, while heavy, timeless timber beams ran the breadth of the ceiling.

I could not take photos as there were staff there to prevent just that, but on the third floor, which consisted of half a dozen small bedrooms, I did manage to sneak off some shots, which I've not included as the cheapie camera wasn't up to it in the end. The bedrooms, though miniscule, were still furnished in olden-day style, and full of adorable little niches and hidey-holes. The beds were so short, in the style of the time, that I declare I do not know how anybody comfortably fit in them.

Having seen as much as possible, I descended a frightfully steep and narrow stairwell - no rampaging armies ever battled their way up these steps, you'd have to remove all armour! - and soon found myself in the kitchens. They had been made to look as if still in operation, complete with life-size mannequins of the kitchen staff and half-prepared plastic food. There was even a background recording of kitchen noises playing! It was quite absorbing.

Eventually I found myself outside again and made my way to the back courtyard, facing Loch Duich. It was a stunningly beautiful scene, with the sun shining warmly, the mountains soaring majestically in the distance, and the blue, blue sky reflected in the still waters of the Loch. Oh, to live in such a place!

I could see, so close, so damned inaccessible behind the padlocked gate, the stone steps leading up to the castle's ramparts. Not that Eilean Donan is really big enough to quite match the tower fantasy, but it would have been fun nonetheless.

After half an hour more of ferreting out some of her lesser-kept secrets, I bid farewell to the prettiest wee castle I've seen so far and reluctantly boarded the bus. We were soon on our way to Skye.


Sligachan River

Having parked in Glen Sligachan, in the shadow of the Black Cuillin Mountains, we piled off the bus and began the hike to a swimming hole near the base of Marsco Mountain.

It was quite a pretty route, with cleverly simple rock bridges and stepping-stones across the many rivulets of water carving their way down the valley's slopes and feeding into the river. A breeze swept down the same route, cool and swift, to stir the pockets of flowers and of heather dotting the plain. The river, an iridescent, cerulean blue, rushed past us in the swirl of a hundred minor waterfalls.

When we reached the rendezvous, Lynne entertained us with the tale of Sligachan River, which is a bit prolonged but ends with a Faerie Queen taking pity on the poor heroine, who has been brutally disfigured by a rival clan. The Faerie Queen instructs the girl to immerse herself in the waters of Sligachan, and upon emerging she finds herself whole and beautiful.

It is from this legend that a custom has established for visitors to submerge their faces (or...erm, whatever) in the river for seven seconds, hoping for the promised magic of Scotland's very own Fountain of Youth. Well, I held out for ten seconds, and have two things to report:
a) that the water is damned near arctic, certainly not for swimming, and
b) that I'm no prettier for the experience. But it was fun.


Kyleakin

The first thing I noticed upon departing the bus outside our hostel in Kyleakin was a small fort-like ruin on a promontory about a kilometre along the coastline. After check-in and some enquiries I was on my way, trekking through wet foliage and over rocky inlets to the unguarded Caisteal Maol, meaning "Bare Castle".

The ruins seemed more that of a fort or medieval lighthouse than of anything one could call a castle - much smaller than Eilean Donan. Originally "Dunakin", Caisteal Maol was allegedly built in the tenth century as a lookout post and fortress. Local legend has it that in the fifteenth century the castle was owned by a Viking princess known as 'Saucy Mary' and her MacKinnon husband, who ran a chain beneath the narrow stretch of water from Maol to the mainland and levied a toll on all ships passing through. 'Saucy Mary' would then apparently amuse herself - or compensate them? - by flashing her chest at the departing sailors.

What survives today, however, is little more than two high walls, some beams where the second floor once existed, a nicely preserved window area in one of the two walls, and some rotting planks in the sunken depression where a floor should have been. I detected no plaque to or ghost of the unruly Mary, and suspect it's probably less a reflection of past inhabitants and more a local myth created to encourage drunk or excitable tourists into baring all. Apparently several of our own drunk and excitable tour mates were doing just that down by the wharf, egged on by cheers from the local pub.

I had arrived in time to inspect the windswept ruins and to watch the sun as it set into the ocean behind Skye Bridge, lighting the water and the air with a rainbow of colours. And no, I was too far away to see anything the nudists were getting up to, though rumour has it that one of the boys did a Saucy Martin at the passing ships. Wherever are your binoculars when you need them?

Soon one of my more adventurous tour buddies arrived, whose name I cannot now remember, though I did like her. When the last of the light faded we had to hurry back, and at my suggestion, we went overland through the heather fields. But it was an awful muddle of wet, boggy discomfort, so we backtracked and followed the coastline - and just in time! Unbeknownst to us, the tide had come in and we barely made it back across the rocks.

She returned to the hostel, muddy and laughing, but I was still antsy and wanting to make the most of new pastures. So I decided to climb a hillock I could see near the water with a floodlit celtic cross upon its summit. I suppose my rationale was that it must be pretty special to warrant a floodlight.

What followed was completely ridiculous. It seemed unavoidable that there should be a path for people to reach the cross, but the knoll was fronted on all sides by houses and buildings. I spent ages quietly trying to scale barb-wired, almost vertical slopes in what were probably people's backyards before circling the area again and finding, finally, a blue arrow pointing up a concrete path. The path led to a bracken-covered slant in another backyard, but by then I was irritated and determined, and there was no barbed wire to be seen, so up I plunged, through nettles and brambles and pitchforks into a spine-covered hell. Eventually I arrived at the top, scratched, bleeding and triumphant.

The cross was dedicated to the 'lost' sailors of the area who had perished in the last forever-and-a-day. Not quite the discovery I'd hoped for. What's more, not only was there a path down the other side of the hill, but it was paved and handrailed, blasted thing. It led to the side of a carpark, which I think is why I missed it in my initial searches. Argh.

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Photos

Paddling in Loch Ness
FFRREEEEZING!
Me: "Take the bloody photo already!"

The Five Sisters of Kintail
Local legend has it that the five mountains were once human sisters, who, if I remember correctly, had fallen in love with some unworthy Irishmen that then disappeared on a quest. The sisters waited for them until their beauty had faded and nobody else wanted them. Their father approached the local witch and asked that his daughters be made beautiful again, forever. The witch, for whatever reason, then turned them into the mountains we see today. Thus the name.