Isle of (When's the Last Time We Saw Any Friggin) Skye

[warning: this is a long post. best to take in doses?]

My all-too generous travel buddy e has posted an all-too generous and all-too brief (probably because he has real work to do...) account of our trip to the Isle of Skye over the weekend. Oh- and e--this pic is to get you back for that nice shot you posted of an intimate moment betwixt myself and Eggshot (where'd you even FIND that???).


So. FRIDAY early evening, I take the train from Aberdeen to Inverness (2 1/2 hours of staring out the window. Scotland is all my favorite colors), and I meet e at the train station. e has traveled on the train all the way from Cambridge, and was reading serious things the whole time, I'm sure. With big, scary words in the titles so that all those people reading Dan Brown novels feel (properly) (silently) humiliated. Here sits a REAL scholar, gentlemen.

We discover quickly that the reason I could find no places to stay for the weekend is because it's one of the U.K's Bank Holidays, which means to the locals No Work Monday, Drinking on Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. PLUS, there was a rugby tourny and lots of important footy games on over the weekend. (Though the biggest match was tonight: Manchester United (who I always root for (and by always I mean, when I happened to be able to see a European soccer game and/or I'm in the U.K and/or other parts of Europe and/or other civilized countries that realize the goodness of the sport)) vs. Barcelona. Well, Man U tanked, but that's neither here nor there, I guess. Back to the weekend...)

All this to say that little ole Inverness was kickin. And the one hostel I found with open spaces was just as you might expect the one hostel in town with open spaces to be. Creepy. I won't go into details. The only good thing is that we were in a separate building from the main hostel-building, and ours seemed mostly to be full comprised of office space for things like the Polish Immigration Committee, the Historian's Preservation Society and the like. The room had a window, though, from which one could (and I did) climb out onto the roof and watch the bazillion high-schoolers stumbling around to wildly amusing (and amply bassed-out) Scottish versions of John (formerly Cougar) Mellencamp and the canonical Madonna tunes blaring out of the neighboring Karaoke joint. Inverness is a little place, but had a ridiculous number of dance clubs. Which e and I methodically avoided. We did take some time to visit and subsequently make fun of Inverness Castle, though. That was nice.

Next morning I make e wrap things up with the main hostel folks so I don't have to interact with them ever again (I don't know why they bothered me so much. They were nice, I guess.... they just reminded me a lot of Carnies for some reason).

We took a drizzly train ride down to Kyle of Lochalsh--the jumping-off point for the Isle of Skye. When we arrive in Skye we were supposed to have either a car for hire (how adventurous is THAT? I've never driven a European stick shift. Lefties rejoice!) OR at least a taxi. But I think you and I both know what was about to happen.

That's right. Obligatory Misadventure with Public Transport in a Foreign Country, Part the First (oh yes-- one of a series, I assure you. All in one, fabulous weekend, too! Let's give it up for remote countries where transport companies lack serious competition! There is something to be said for a competitive free market on this front...but I won't digress w/ an economics spiel here [*and the peasants rejoiced*]).

The taxi company dude was waiting for us on the platform. That part at least was impressive. He asked for my name, then said "Oh yes, we have a reservation for you." e and I follow him up the road to the office, where he points on a schedule to the name "Lisa Marshall" and says "This is you, ay?"

No, no it is not.

He makes a few calls. e and I anxiously stare at maps on the walls. I recall looking at the bus itineraries for the entire island a few days ago, and I vividly recall how there was precisely ONE bus to Portnalong (the "town" where our hostel was) on Saturday, which we'd already missed, and NO buses anywhere on the island at ALL on Sundays. We NEED this car, I think.

The man speaks to us again. "I'm afraid I have bahd nehws." You can stop there, taxi man. I think I can guess the rest.

End result? e and I get hurried along at last minute with Al the Crabby Taxi Driver for a tense supposedly "scenic" (though our "scene" consisted on this particular weekend mostly of grayish misty foggy rainy windy shadowy-ness. If only cameras could *feel* the presence of the spectacular rugged peaks supposedly stood all around us). Mind-- during this trip to our hostel in Portnalong, which is called "Skyewalker Hostel", harhar, which was only 36.5 miles from Kyle of Lochalsh yet cost almost my weight in British pounds sterling (I won't even attempt to remind myself of the rate he charged to pick us up the next afternoon. Criminal, absolutely criminal...)-- mind that as we were whisked away into the whirling mists in Captain Grumpypant's taxi, we had no real food in our tummies yet, save for a bit of pastries from away back that morning in Inverness (e had some magical creamy puff-cake thing. I had a pineapple tart. Deliciousness. I highly recommend the Polish bakery on Union Street, just off of Academy, in Inverness).

One of many things I have learned from this trip. e and I are both good people; really we are. But there are certain...how shall one say..."minor hiccups" that tend to arise more frequently when both you and your traveling buddy are of the scholarly sort. Namely, one forgets to eat, or get cash to pay Chief Thundercloud the Taxi Driver once you FINALLY arrive at your hostel, or look at a blasted weather report before traveling somewhere remote and über-wet that lacks proper transportation systems. Also, one has no real sense of time, or distance. This theme will recur. I ought to have learned my lesson after getting lost on a mountain in the dark last summer (doop dee doo, I'm Elise and I somehow imagine that hiking in the sparsely vegetated alpine regions of Colorado makes me SUPER qualified to go tramping up a mountain alone, late in the afternoon, on the edge of a nasty storm, into a sub-tropical rain forest, without a light source of any kind. But gee willikers, I could give you a neat little lecture about quantum decoherence, I sure could!)

After paying the Captain an exorbitant fee in cash we had to scramble to find, we enter our hostel only to be informed that it is only noon, and we can't check in until 3:00. Surely I read that somewhere before arriving? Well done, Elise. But by now my stomach is punching me for neglect (it comes with being a scholar or otherwise idealist person that your body occasionally behaves mutinously. The ulcer from this year is case-in-point. Couldn't swallow a drop of fine red wine without facing mortal peril until I'd passed all my exams this Spring...then the ulcer or whatever it was magically disappeared. Go figure.)

What do the scholarly duo decide to do to kill three hours? Get food! But how, you ask, since there is no food to be had in the entire "town" of Portnalong until drinkin' ("dinner") time? Well, silly, just jog on down the road to the next town, Carbost. There's the Old Inn serving food all day right across from the Talisker distillery (indeed, had we not smelt that wondrous perfume of mash whilst driving past the distillery in our taxi not yet fifteen minutes ago?)

So e and I get as water-proofed as possible, which for me meant putting on a thin rain-slicker, and for e meant....uh...borrowing my wee red travel umbrella...and turning to face the nasty weather on a quest for food.

While we did pass several baby lambs and one snooty horse, those three miles in the downpour and chilly Atlantic breezes forced even the idealist in us to flirt with realism. It was pretty miserable. We kept coming around corners, seeing a white house with old stone chimney and eco-friendly car parked in the drive and say "Oh yes, I remember this house-- the distillery wasn't much farther!" But were we merely being toyed with. On and on we trudged, narrowly avoiding certain death on that one-lane road from a surprising number of cars whizzing past (how FAST they could go! how SLOW were we?) Not one of the lot stopped to offer us a ride. Perhaps because we looked like drowned otters (except where the otters don't like water. And haven't eaten since they were in Inverness. And are both about 6 feet tall. Giant, drenched otters.)

After sloshing up and down plenteous hills, during which time I surely annoyed e by attempting to be cheerful ("Oh, look at the little baby lamb! Hi, baby lamb! Give me your hair so I'll be dry! Why are you running away, baby lamb? Baby lamb?!?!" or "My, just look at the sea! It's so... so much like... your brand-new Cambridge sweatshirt which is also some darkish blue-ie color and very wet?") we finally came round a corner to see the Talisker distillery. We went into the shop just long enough to ogle the lovely bottles of 30-year whiskey, priced at 209 GBP and change, and to think "It'd be neat to taste those at some point. Neatie-neat", and just long enough to leave our own personally distilled puddles of rainwater all over the shop's floor. But food was calling from just a few more paces down the road...

Walking into the Old Inn was like walking into a fairy tale. Where the fairy tale takes place in a dimly lit, warm and bustling, hoppy-fishy pub that serves the finest U.K. brews and the hottests, most vinegary, most salty and delicious Haddock & chips you have EVER tasted. And also there are no fairies. That I noticed.

Maybe it was the long walk, but wow. I inhaled my food so fast I got the hiccups (though e was kind enough to tell the bar tender it was because of the ale. Thanks for sticking up for me, dude *wink*). It was altogether a happy time (though we were both still thoroughly drenched, and in fact left numerous puddles of water under and around and on and in any place even thinking about being next to our corner of the pub). And the best part? A kindly old musician who'd chatted with us briefly overheard me describing our plight (a story I may or may not have told more than once to people sitting around the bar, and with more than sufficient volume). Well, this wonderful musician heard my warbling and offered to drive us back to Portnalong. Good man. Good man.

Back at The Skyewalker (which despite it's cheesy name was a FANTASTIC hostel), I chatted with a woman about climbing on the island. Apparently many famous climbers come out this time of year to attempt the Black Cuillin Ridge, a notoriously rough climb. In fact, the hostel owner informed me a woman who'd climbed Everest twice often stayed with them while training in the Black Cuillin range. Unfortunately, e and I never did get to see them. Another thing I learned (besides YOU MUST have your OWN mode of transportation on the island, anywhere in Scotland, for that matter!) is that if you want even a shot at doing any real climbing on Skye, you gotta plan to be there for a couple of weeks, minimum. Maybe then you'll catch a clear day. Maybe. As for our measly 26 hours on the island? Ain't gonna cut it, I'm 'fraid.


For dinner, the one pub in Portnalong had finally opened. Post hot-shower and dry-clothes, e and I headed out into the now sunny evening. e ate mussels. I told him he could just nibble on someone's feet-for free!--and it'd be more or less the same. Maybe tastier. But to each his own... I had something Mexican I think, which is unexpected, and I also had juice (for which I was mocked heartily by both e, who couldn't pass up another chance to sample the milk of those great U.K. taps, and the bartender). When in Scotland, I guess...

But the best part of this tale-- and indeed the whole weekend, I believe-- was discovering my new favorite dessert there at that little pub in Portnalong. It is called Sticky Toffee Pudding (pictured below), and it is no less than the Ambrosia of the gods. Please believe me when I say that the taste--oh the TASTE!--of that gooey warm delight would thrill even the cruelest and hardest and most embittered of souls. Scotland isn't a nation that favors sweet things ( I noticed this within 4 hours of arriving in country), and that's a cross I shall have to bear should I accept a post-doc here. But I must say that having discovered Sticky Toffee Pudding-- though less easily found on this coast--makes the thought of living longer term in a country where they prefer a dram of whiskey for dessert much more bearable.

That evening we hung out in the now-bustling hostel for a bit. Oh-- I can't believe I failed to mention why I chose this hostel. First off, you can't help but feel warm kinship for punsters while abroad. Given the name of the hostel I knew the folks owning it couldn't be bad. Second, they actually had two spaces available on this holiday weekend in peak peak-climbing season. Third--and perhaps my favorite-- the owners are Scottish folk musicians of some renown, and on their website they said they often jammed in the evening with guests. Jackpot!!! I love Scottish folk, what little of it I've found that isn't actually Irish folk (Whiskey in the Jar, for example), and I knew things would be great when round about 10 pm the owners and some visiting friend musicians pulled out eight (EIGHT!) guitars, a bass, harmonicas, a mandolin and various percussion instruments. I sat with them and listened for a long time-- they were really talented, and some of the songs Lisa (one of the owners) had written about coming home to Caledonia were so beautifully sad, so rich with history and family and knowing the roots of one's story go centuries and centuries deep...it was perfect.

A few hours into the jam session they asked if I'd play a song for them. I haven't played since, oh, probably the Fall...and I wasn't so sure about it. But there were 15 or so rambunctious "youths" playing games in the other part of the common room, so I figured not many people would hear. Plus, they wanted to hear an American song. And golly Moses if we haven't got the One and the Only Paul Simon on our side...

So I played Kathy's Song, not very well, but it seemed appropriate given the drizzle of the rain out the window. I was thrown off about halfway through when I realized that the noisy boys from the common room has stopped being noisy to sing along. So did a young couple sitting next to me, and an old man who looked like the Captain of a Ship, sitting shyly around the corner. It was one of those moments--when we were all wrapped up together in the bittersweetness of that song and we could all sing it, the other Americans, the Scots, and the British folk, too. It's the sort of hippie-bohemian communal moment that you always imagine happens in hostels in the wee hours, after everyone has played good and long all day and eaten and drunk heartily most of the night...except it was happening here in this ancient land.

Then I went to bed. Which I ought to do now. Ha! I shall next time regale you with the less happy tale of Sunday, the day in which Obligatory Misadventures with Public Transport in a Foreign Country Parts the Second, Third and Fourth were to take place.

But maybe I'll post some pretty pictures, too.
Speaking of which: