Day one.
Already I’m bursting with the energy of discovery.
A perfect morning at Goldings. But we have to leave the beauty, the tranquility.
Jordan’s Cafe. Long Rock.
Bacon roll. Coffee. St Michael’s Mount.
And a steam train.
From a distance I’m appalled at the pall of smoke over Penzance Staion (does pall pertain to appalled? I must look it up). As the beast approaches my feelings shift and I’m moved by the majesty of this behemoth as it glides by, all steam and whisper. We smile at the thought that we get to experience the delight of this passing that’s financed by those in the carriages who’ve paid handsomely but don’t get to see the main attraction once they’re on board.
On the road. Quiet. Miles slip by. We haven’t driven on English motorway in years. Thankfully few wish to join us. Until Birmingham. Then it’s crowded. But moving. We once did this all the time. Now we long for country lanes. Cows in the road.
Manchester.
Ten years in Manchester left us jaded. To return ten years later it’s an exciting sensory overload. What were new developments back then have matured now. Little sticks have grown into proud mature trees sheltering the city types from occasional sunshine. The shiny newness has dulled.
But there’s always more new.
Today it’s a vast development of soaring glass towers at the end of Deansgate. Riverside Living the poster proclaims. Manchester’s River Irwell is a sludge of chemical waste and shopping trolleys that’s an insignificant stream oozing between the high rise that sparkle in the morning sun.
Dinner at Sparrows, a restaurant in the arches that once offered scary car parking for work.
Spätzle and pierogi. In Manchester! Fantastic too.
Glasgow.
Head north.
Negotiate the tight bends of another alarming car park and step out into central Glasgow. Really central. Right next to the station.
At The Pot Still whiskey bar Billy advised us on whiskies and distillery tours.
Down the road La Lanterna served the very best Italian, as it has for decades.
We’re in awe at the ambition of this still proud city. We wander in wonder.
At 8.00am the city streets throng as thousands walk from Central Station to offices across the city. Heads down or heads to their phones. My head’s high, taking in the detail they know is there but no longer see.
Leaving, we weave city streets then straight onto the madness of the M8 where we realise how our country ways no longer brace us for multiple lanes of cars in a hurry.
While the experience left us jumpy we’re soon on the banks of Loch Lomond. There’s calm to be found here somewhere, but on the road the juggernauts thundering down the opposite lane ensure there’s no let up in the driving adrenaline.
Highlands.
Lochside opens into glen, glen is filled by loch, the sky grows huge, the traffic falls away, and the wonder seeps in.
Glencoe. Probably our fourth descent in thirty years. Every one magnificent. Today’s beyond imagination.
At Onich we swing into Highland Croft B&B. Double bed. How small? Otherwise it’s a joy.
Joy. But the dastardly black dog has been biting at our heels and exertion is required. Up early. 10kms run. Climb climb climb. My knees prefer the up to the down.
Fort William. Lidl. Fruit and nuts and don’t even glance at the forbidden bakery temptation. Fresh could be in short supply over the days to come.
Eilean Donan.
The joy increases to the point of elation at Eilean Donan Castle.
I hope few of its thousands of visitors realise that it’s an early 20th century recreation of the original that the English destroyed a couple of hundred years earlier.
Beyond Eilean Donan only the fatigue of so much observation (and miles) dulls the sparkle, but it all lights up again once over the bridge and onto Skye.
Skye.
The Western Isles are not known for great weather but today the only clouds exaggerate the clarity of the sky, the crystal of the visibility. The morning started at just three degrees, but sun this bright can’t fail to warm and at times the car read sixteen.
The sunshine and warmth cause bright fresh leaves to unfurl before our eyes, yet here the daffodils are coming into flower as the last of ours go over.
That sun keeps shining, setting 20 minutes later even than at home in the far west, and it’ll pop up again that much earlier tomorrow.
Beach. Sound of Sleat.
Head south. To the southern tip of Skye. Hardly another vehicle. Good job, there’s only room for one. At the end of the road park up and abandon the car to walk the last two miles to the utterly beautiful Camas Daraiche, or Sound of Sleat Beach to you and me.
Strip. Naked. Swim.
Cold. But not freezing.
And this beach.
Is there one more beautiful?
Inn at Aird a Bhasair
Back at the pub. The Inn at Aird a Bhasair. We’d worried over the crazy price of the rooms, but once we opened the door to our view we no longer cared.
Caledonian Ale. Several of those please.
Now can we slow down a little?
It has been nineteen years since we were last on Skye. Back then it really was the back of beyond, but today there are well designed signs all over for businesses ready to exploit the tourist pound.
Big budget distilleries now charge £20 for a tour that used to be free. Everything within is shiny and new, with handheld screens delivering information that would be better told. Branded clothing, water bottles, tote bags and umbrellas. Here, the romance has gone, but outside it’s everywhere.
Do a distillery tour nonetheless. You’ll learn what it’s all about.
We’ll do ours tomorrow. Just don’t expect to roll out crying with drunken laughter as used to be the case. Don’t expect to be asked to sample a wee dram of this, and then of that, increasing your knowledge until you can no longer hold the quaich.
We’ll sup Tè Bheag tonight. A blended Gaelic Whisky, it’s finished in rum casks and it’s about as smooth as a Scotch ever gets.
Empty.
Leave the modern signs and distilleries aside, this is a wild magnificent place. The population density of Skye is less than 7 per kilometre square. That’s seriously empty. To put the number in context, across England the average population is over 435 per kilometre square. Even Cornwall has 160 people per kilometre.
In the south apparently there are still many native Gaelic speakers, with 46% of islanders able to use the old tongue. The language looks hard to me, few words mirror our own Cornish and that’s hard enough. Television will help keep it alive.
Raasay.
In a whisky bar in Amsterdam last year the massively bearded proprietor recommended we try the Raasay Distillery. We’re here today to obey his command.
The ferry takes 20 minutes to chug across the sound from Sconser to the tiny isle of Raasay. Ferry capacity is 15 or so cars depending on size. With 75 passengers on board it can increase the island population by 50%.
Today the ferry has delivered a dozen doctors on a booze tour. They’re sitting near us now trying to complete a quiz of their own creation after a distillery visit and many pints in the sun. To hear our country’s finest interacting whilst uninhibited by management and disinhibited by hard booze is a comedic gift.
Raasay House Hotel.
The Raasay House Hotel is a curious place. The fine, elegant building has generous rooms with comfortable beds. The restaurant offers local delights and the bar has plenty to lighten any mood. Somehow though it feels like a hotel and catering training college where all the lecturers and half of the students have fled leaving a few youngsters in charge. There’s nothing actually wrong, but nothing feels quite right. Who cares? It’s beautiful and it’s fun.
From Raasay Skye is magnificent.
From Skye Skye is magnificent.
Next week we hope to slow down. Stay in one place. Drive only if we have to.
This week we’ve seen it all at its very best. Weather like this only happens for a few days a year. We have been blessed to experience it.
You lucky people! How did you manage to arrange that weather? Glad you had such a good time