Bus over a raining Skye

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“Have you ever had a goatee?”

“No, but I had a goat once.”

Sitting in Inverness a month on from the start of my trip, I still loved the lively buzz of mixed-up conversations and the crazy characters to be encountered in hostel lounges. The night of the above quotation, I gave up on my guide books and bus timetables, unable to resist the semi-surreal exchange of carefully pronounced English, fuelled by an equal parts mixture of goodwill, vodka and Irn-Bru.

As it turned out, my input was unnecessary and my onward travel pre-ordained. Having landed on my feet in randomly picking one of Scotland’s Top Hostels (the name of the chain, but coincidentally true) what should be more natural than that it turn out to be a part of the MacBackpackers group, with their tour buses stopping by regularly?

Add to that convenience the hundred percent recommendation from staff and fellow travellers alike that I visit the Isle of Skye… and oh, look at that! The Jump-On-Jump-Off bus (otherwise known as the jo-jo) is passing the next day on its way to Skye, and there’s one seat left! Staff member Guy had been eyeing it up, but insisted on surrendering it to me.

I embraced my destiny, and late the next afternoon was introduced to the crowd already on board the bus, who’d bonded during the day’s drive up from Edinburgh. We sped through Inverness for a brief stop by Loch Ness, where our more than slightly insane driver, Jo (Jo who drives the jo-jo! Oh, the delight!) managed to convince several people to go for a swim with Nessie. Five guys and one intrepid lass gave a verdict: freezing!

We wound through glens and over hills in the gathering dim, and I leant on the window-sill admiring the incredible colours and landscapes blurring in front of my eyes. The bus was a little late and we were hurrying to get to Skye, so there was no stopping - but I drank in the yellows and oranges against soaring rocky crags and gushing rivers, trickling waterfalls and a grimly cloudy sky.

A brief photo stop was allowed in front of the floodlit Eileen Doonan castle, and Jo told us that the distant line of craggy mountains forming the backdrop to our pictures was the mountain range on Skye. It wasn’t long before we were driving through Kyle of Localsh and flying across the long bridge connecting Skye to the mainland.

On arrival in at our accommodation in Kyleakin on the Isle of Skye, I had to pay for the next day’s circular tour… which was when we discovered the booking mix up. Someone staying on the island already had reserved a seat - my seat - for the tour and the trip back to Edinburgh, and he’d done it before I’d booked the day before. In a spot of despair I surveyed the lack of public transport on the island. It seemed that now I had arrived, the best I could do was leave again.

Lesson: never doubt the friendliness of backpacking staff! The hostel manager and the bus driver put their heads together, and decided that since Jo was driving as well as guiding the tour, I could take advantage of the empty guide’s seat, just for the tour. With a huge thanks to Lucas and Jo, I settled in, swapping stories with a noisy group of Spanish exchange students and a demure quartet of Chinese tourists.

The next morning dawned bright and clear, but who’s up at dawn? By seven there were clouds boiling on the horizon, and by nine it was raining petulantly. Being intrepid explorers, we set off anyway, and Jo became master story-teller, spinning the legends of the countryside as we headed to the centre of the island. By the time we’d arrived in Sligachen to visit the source of the warrior women’s eternal youth, the rain was strong enough to sting as it hit, and the wind was howling through even the thickest wet weather gear. We were a sorry group of mortals, standing on the bridge watching the water below thrash through its rocky riverbed. Deciding our lives were worth more than youthful complexions, Jo refused to let any of us attempt the trip down the rocks to bathe our faces in the icy water.

Portree, or Port Righ (the King’s Port) in the Gaelic, is the main town on Skye. The bloody legends of tribal one-upmanship in the area don’t seem to match the pretty little township sitting there now. Gift and jewellery shops abounded, but judging from the prices Portree is used to a better class of tourist than our rag-tag band. I chewed my lunch down by the sheltered harbour, where the sullen water and threatening skies made a more fitting backdrop for territory once fought over by the MacLeods and the MacDonalds questing to become Lords of the Isles.

Refreshed and with the rain slowed to a drizzle, we stopped to see a famous monolith called Old Man Storr. In legend the stone outcrop is attributed to a randy giant, and the sight is supposedly spectacular. I wouldn’t know - I haven’t really seen it! Nothing was visible from the approach, so we climbed halfway up the mountain for a closer view of... nothing. A splinter group of about fifteen of the most determined climbed to the top - but we couldn’t see more than a shadowy outline even when we were standing right underneath with our hands on the stone! It was a very wet experience, and actually rather dangerous at the top, with the gale trying its best to blow us off the island altogether. Everyone got safely down, but even those who had not climbed all the way up were completely soaked.

Luckily, there’s never a pub too far away in Scotland. After a quick stop at Kilt Rock, (which we thought we could almost make out in the gloom) we arrived at a tiny put of the way pub. Having been promised a fire, I think we’d all been imagining sitting around a giant hearth, toasting warmth back into our extremities. The teensy tiny fire barely large enough for one person to stand in front of was thus something of a let down, but shoes and socks were ripped off nevertheless. and optimistically piled on the flagstones, (in such a way that no-one’s items were going to get any drier but might conceivably get wetter.) Jo told us the history of the castle on the headland while cold and soggy people set about getting friendly with considerable amounts of chips, scotch and locally brewed beer. The castle ruins earned only cursory glances from the window. No-one was keen to go back into the driving rain to explore it.

Reluctantly leaving the shelter of the pub, we took a vote on continuing the tour, and luckily those of us determined to make the best of it won, since the next stop was the famed Faerie Glen. Supposed to be the prettiest spot on Skye, it’s steeped in faerie lore and covered with faerie mounds and faerie challenges. Listening carefully to Jo’s instructions for fear of provoking the wrath of the little folk, we carefully filed through the glen, climbing the fairy castle, walking the spiral and casting wishes. It is a beautiful spot, even when turned to mush with all the rain, so that one slides down the bank on one’s hands and knees…

Back at the hostel that evening, long queues formed for the showers as everyone tussled to be warm, dry and first down the pub. Groups were back and forth between the hostel and the three small village pubs all night, while piles of muddy gear dried on the heaters and in front of the fire.

I was set to say goodbye to the group and catch the Citylink through Fort William in the morning, but yet again fate intervened - Jo said they were going through Fort William and she’d drop me off. Heading south, we drove through Braveheart country, and I stared out the windows, pinching myself with amazement at where I was, and dreaming of the history in those hills.

Just before lunch we reached the Commando Memorial and stopped for a magnificent viewpoint of Ben Nevis, the tallest mountain in Scotland. He defeats numerous climbers, even though he’s not as tall as many New Zealand peaks. Jo told us the tales of stupidity on the mountain, idiots unprepared for the conditions or looking for an easy way down. The tops were under clouds, not a good indication for those attempting the climb.

I said goodbye to the jo-jo in the main street of Fort William, and walked back through town to the bus station, where I discovered buses don’t run to Oban on Sundays. Forced to wait, I shouldered my pack. As I wound my way back up the hill to Fort William’s MacBackpacking hostel it began to rain again.

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Photos

In the gloaming
This is Scotland... taken from the moving bus - but I like the painterly feel the blur evokes.

Illumination
Eilean Doonan Castle by night. The jagged peaks in the distance are the Cuillins of Skye.

The river of eternal youth
Flowing under the bridge at Sligachan, with the shadowy foothills of the Cuillins behind it.

Old Man Storr
Usually visible for miles around, we were able to see his outline only when standing directly underneath.

Waterfall and Kilt Rock
The waterfall, fed by the rain, was spectacular. Kilt Rock can be vaguely made out towards the top of the picture - see the pleats?

Faerie Glen
Faerie spirals and wishing rings under water.

United We Conquer
The area around the Nevis range was used to train crack squads of commandos during the war. Their monument looks out towards the mountains.

Loch Ness
Admiring the clouds while waiting on the shore for those game enough to "swim with Nessie."

Back on the bus
As it grew darker, the reflections in the windows got more interesting.

View of Skye
Halfway up the hill in search for the monolith, the clouds parted for five minutes, allowing us to look down across the island.

The monolith that wasn't there
And nor was the rest of the mountain, although we were walking on it... this is taken looking up the slope from the same spot as the previous (one and only) view of Skye.

Spires
Looking behind us from Old Man Storr there was an amazing cathedral spire-like outcrop - and a long drop down the cliffs below.

The Faerie Castle
This battlement like outcrop was at the highest point of Faerie Glen.

The Nevis Range
The summit of Ben Nevis is apparently almost as high again, hidden in those clouds. This is the view of the three commandos on the memorial.

Hangin'
While we took our picture of the Nevis range, a gang of bikers zoomed into the carpark, all silver haired - a middle aged biker's tour group. Now that's aging gracefully!