from the Isle of Skye: loud the winds howl

You talk! I can’t hear a word. I hand the phone back to Ed. The wind is ripping me apart. There is some protection from the side of a house, here, in the village of Broadford, but it’s not much. We’ve just stepped off the bus and we’re on the Isle of Skye.





It took a while to get here, but we are now utterly brilliant (in the UK meaning) at figuring out the cheapest and best ways to get from point A to B in Scotland (helped tremendously by the best public transportation website I have ever seen – travelinescotland.com). And today, we traveled, for the first time, as seniors, on a rail discount pass that for L15 would get us to any point in the country and back. [Truthfully, nothing has made me feel as old as realizing that I am eligible for an elderly pass!]

First leg – we head east to Inverness, oh lovely town, that always breaks up the clouds for me when I am there!

And then, back to Scotland’s west, past a landscape constantly teased by a threat of rain...










...past villages with fanciful names and lovely spring flowers...





...to the edge of the sea – to the village of Kyle of Lochalsh – where we catch the local Skye bus that takes us over the bridge to the Isle of Skye. Fifteen years ago, you would have had to take a ferry. But now, the ferry service is obsolete.







Images of this island have been with me for a long long time. From history books (on the escape of the bonnie Prince Charlie here in 1746) to children’s books (we had a beautiful one on island life here that I would always pick to read to my girls), to photos of the rugged hills and barren coast – I’ve painted a canvas in my mind of what it's like to live on the Isle of Skye.

And even before, in my youngest school years, this was my most favorite music class song (listen to it here):

Speed bonnie boat like a bird on the wing,
Onward, the sailors cry.
Carry the lad that's born to be king,
over the sea to Skye…

You could say that Skye has been in my lullaby dreams from childhood onwards.

And now, here I am, trying ineffectively to put a call through to our b&b.

Loud the winds howl,
loud the waves roar,
Thunderclaps rend the air,
Baffled, our foes stand by the shore,
Follow they will not dare.





So far, in the short time that we’ve been here, I can say that Skye is as dreadfully rugged and beautiful as I imagined it to be.

Our b&b host tells Ed – walk up the road a bit and I’ll come out to meet you!
And from Ed -- Could you repeat that please? Can’t hear you over the wind…
He does. And within minutes we see him. As I zip my fleece to the top and brace against the wind coming in from the water, I note that Tony Breen (our host) is in short sleeves. You’re not cold?
I was playing with our boy in the sun five minutes ago! Then the clouds came, the wind picked up – that’s Skye for you.



In the bright light of the northern evening, we set out for dinner just up the road to Creelers of Skye.





Oh, new Scotland, you! You show up when I least expect you!

We eat scallops and mussels and shellfish, all served with a promise that it’s locally sourced. With great care and respect for the ingredients. Fresh and honest.

We sit by a window and look out to catch the play of wind, rain and sea.





Outside, the skies are clearing. I know, only for a minute. Enough to give us a safe passage home.





Though the waves leap,
soft shall ye sleep,
Ocean's a royal bed.
Rock'd in the deep,
Flora will keep watch o'er your weary head.


Yep. Just as I had imagined.

from along the River Spey, the Highlands, Scotland: recovery

The kayaking hero returns: wet, tired, hungry. He eats the rest of my Walkers shortbread biscuits (factory: a few miles up the road), plugs in the computer and probably likes the idea of being left there, under the quilt for a few days.

But I’ve been riding buses and staying put and my energy is boundless. I think surely a hearty Scottish breakfast will perk him up a little.

[Do you know what b&bs serve us each morning? Always there is porridge (oatmeal), and then there are the eggs – with cooked tomato, mushrooms, beans and a variety of meats, if you want them.]

In the morning, the man eats heartily and then retires yet again while I spread out his wet clothing, basking in the pleasure of tending to such rudimentary duties again.

By lunch, the man is willing to go up the hill for a hearty meal of soup (sweet potato) and sandwich, while I sit gazing admiringly.





We stroll into the village in search of a water bottle (his old one went overboard and he needs a replacement). It’s not a big village, but it has a number of sporting goods shops. And lads, cavorting after school.





And then I gently prod him for at least a half day hike.

Initially, we repeat the direction I took yesterday – to Loch an Eilein. It’s a steely gray day, with occasional sprinkles to make it interesting, in a Scottish sort of way.





It’s empty and quiet here, in the woods. Birdsong, yes, there is that. And the snap of dry wood as a deer scampers off. And the croak of wild pheasant.





We go up a bit toward the high hills. Yes, that’s a good way to remember the highlands: some covered with dense pine, but more frequently made bare, with only the heather waiting for it’s moment of purple hue, and wet dark clouds tumbling low over it all.











And just when you’re sure that the rain is going to come and soak you through and through, there is a break in the clouds and the evening becomes an unknown again. Wet? Dry? Cold? No one can say.





We head back. Dinner at the Old Bridge Inn again. I like it there. Something about the warm pub feeling, the food, the people watching…









A last plate of Scottish cheeses (Isle of Mull brie, Inverlochy goats, Strathon blue, smoked applewood cheddar) to finish things off.


Friday we leave. Up to Inverness and then west again. To the Isle of Skye.


IMPORTANT NOTE: for the next four days (until June 9th), my Internet access is going to be very uncertain. Over my years of blogging, I can think of only a handful of times where I could not post because of a connection problem. This may well be another such time. I will try; stay patient please!

from the River Spey, the Highlands, Scotland: finding a good place to wait

When last I wrote, my occasional traveling companion, Ed, was kayaking solo on the River Spey while I was studying Scotland bus schedules to get myself to the point where he would reach the sea and we could reunite.

You could say that I spent Tuesday on the regional buses of Scotland.





At 6:30 p.m., I am in Garmouth. It’s home to the closest b&b I could find by the mouth of the river. The price is up there (L50 per person) by b&b standards, but I'm glad they have a vacancy. This, after all, is the high season for the English tourists who travel to Scotland to watch birds (it’s a national pastime!), play golf (bluejeans not allowed!), hike trails (with sticks, like me!) and basically enjoy the north as best they can before returning to their staid lives south of the border.

I get off the bus and I understand that I am in the middle of nowhere. Which may not be a bad thing. I like nowhere.

The inn looks like it is of another era. Which, too, may be alright. Quaintly old. Us tourists, we always want the quaint, the local, the undiscovered, as if our own discovery is so masterful, so magnificently private! Here’s mine, from the outside:





I open the door and I know right away, by the smell, the peeling wallpaper, the lack of staff, that I have walked into a hole.

I’ve done that before. In Great Britain and elsewhere. It used to be quite common to find places like this – old, neglected, unloved – places that are there for no reason at all except to lure the occasional weary traveler who has no where else to go.

Places that thrive on the pub business rather than inn-keeping.

There is no choice but to dump my bag and settle in. And ignore everything that is offputting – the smell, the cold, the dirty window that doesn’t open. It’s only for a night. Or two. Or three. Waiting for my companion to finish his adventuring on the water.

I take stock: food. Let’s take care of that. I go down to supper (I have to: there’s nowhere else to get food in the wee village). Hmmm – Mexican beef, chicken Normandie, or fish pie. On the inn's website, there is language about regional menus, organics, etc. I ask about that. The waitress shrugs. Don’t know, luv...

I like pies here (they’re a stew, with maybe a few carrots or peas thrown in, baked with a cover of mashed potatoes) and so I order the fish pie.





On the side, additional potatoes and peas. It is, at the very least, regional.

Inn-hopping is never predictable. And in Britain, price doesn’t necessarily determine value (our inn at Inverness, the Avalon, was cheaper than the Garmouth and I would say it is the nicest b&b I have ever visited). The only way to tell what’s worth a stop is to read up on what people say about it. My advice on the Garmouth: stay away!

After dinner, I get a message that Ed has just called. They were too busy working the pub crowd to locate me. That's okay. I know he's movin' along. I go across the hall to the pub where I am told I can retrieve WiFi. I see that I need a password. I ask for this. I wait until the poor, stressed bartender/waitress/hotel receptionist has a chance to find this out for me. Much time passes.

A helper comes in (good! There are so many people in the bar now! Men, mostly men from villages high and lo). She is told that her first assignment is to walk over to my table and tell me that it’s all a mistake – there is no WiFi.

I’m thinking: the Internet is many miles and (infrequently circulating) buses away – in Elgin. The room here is dirty, smelly, cold, overpriced. With a picture hung crookedly on the wall. (The picture almost certainly is cut from the pages of a magazine.) Why on earth am I here?!?

To wait for my old man to come in from the sea.

Except, in truth, I know that my old man on the water does not care if I am here or elsewhere.

I hike out to explore the river’s run to the sea. It looks magnificent. In either direction.









And confusing. I’m not sure that Ed will dock here. There’s no road, no place to pull up – nothing. Just the footbridge that I’m on.

I try to imagine how he can land, how we can meet up, how his kayak can be hauled to a spot where it can then be transported and I realize – this is for my man of adventure to figure out. Not for me, here on the shore.

I put aside my maternal instincts, return to the Garmouth and consider my options. One thing is clear – I am out of here in the morning. [Valerie, my friend, you are called upon once again – relay the message to Ed that I am no longer where he thinks I should be!]

But where should I be? In the morning, I pay my inflated bill and take the bus back to the regional center of Elgin (you Chicago people, you’ve been saying it wrong – it’s El-ghin!). There I find an open pub (a pretty reliable source of WiFi, even as the local Starbucks lets me down – no, sorry, we expect to have it next month). I scour the area for b&b’s. No vacancy, no vacancy.

Finally, I decide on Aviemore. It’s close to the drop off point for the kayak. It’s a well known tourist town. Surely I’ll find something.

Back on the buses. One connection, leading to another. Through towns that have the old blending so well with the new…








(my favorite confection!)


...past hills and vales on twisty roads that make my stomach turn.










And now I am in Aviemore. With a reservation at a most congenial b&b – the Corrour House. For L5 less than the hole up in Garmouth.








(view out the front room)


I don’t know where Ed is, but I’ve left messages in good places. Time to think about a decent way to finish off these solo days. I ask my b&b hosts about possible calming long walks. They suggest the Rothemurchus Park.

How right were they? You decide.


























After several hours of walking (no heavy backpack – indeed, I have nothing with me even at the b&b – only my computer, my shampoo (!?), my tooth brush and my rain jacket), I feel like a whole person again.

Late in the evening, I walk down to the River Spey – that same bridge where I had paddled just two days back, where the lads jumped off the side – and I settle in at the Old Bridge Inn Pub for supper. The salmon is simple but wonderful, the salad provides a boost to my ebbing vegetable consumption – life is good.










Back at the b&b I learn that Ed has called. He’s found me and is on his way. Sometime tonight. Valerie called as well (How's that Ed doing? Where is he?). She cares about the ending of a chapter. (We'll have to travel together someday... you, Ed, Kevin and I) And the beginning of another.

I’m content.

in/on the River Spey, the Highlands, Scotland

1. Speed, Bonnie Boat


I think this is as far as I can go, I tell Ed as we pull the kayak onto a strip of sand by the Boat of Garten bridge.
He knows I’ve made up my mind and his efforts to get at a different outcome are modest.
It’s so pretty on the river…
Yes, sure. Now, let’s haul the stuff up to the village. And we need food.
Do you know anything about this village?
Only that it has food.
Maybe you should scout it and I’ll stay with the gear.

We don’t have much, but it’s bulky: camping things, a change of clothing, two computers, a camera, paddles, life vests.

No. We need to find a place that will let us dry off. Let’s hope for a b&b.

We walk dispiritedly past clumps of wool (sheep have been here; sheep have been pretty much everywhere in the Scottish Highlands) in the direction of the handful of houses.



It had been a fine start. We loaded the kayak at Lake Insh and by 2 pm, we were on the water.

And I wasn’t too concerned. I can’t even recall how many times I asked about the force of the rapids and the strength of the river current. [I am a reasonably experienced kayaker (even if that experience came, for the most part, decades ago), but I have minimal training on rapids. And I don’t like them. Especially when I’m carrying gear and the weather is always verging on cold.] We were reassured: baby stuff. Level 3 at most (on a scale of 1 to 6, that would seem pretty tame).

And it’s true. The River Spey isn’t really a river of boulders and twisting, cascading rapids. It’s Scotland’s largest river and it’s known mainly for its incredible beauty (and for the malt whiskey distilleries on both sides, but I know little about whiskey so that part is lost on me. Sort of like tempting an infant with arugula).

But water levels shift and change and a calm ride can transform itself into a boulder-coaster ride very quickly when the water levels are low. And they’re very low right now throughout Scotland. Something about too little rain, though I can hardly believe it.

At the beginning, there was so much to enjoy!





But very quickly I realize that there would be no impulse photography. Rapids materialize again and again and when I hear them up ahead (there is always an audible roar) I hide my camera in a protective bag, just in case a big splash would send water flying over our kayak.


And still, in between, there is the occasional moment where I can exhale – admiring the lupines along the banks, the birds, herons, ducks…










...the lads jumping off the bridge for an afternoon dunk...










In these quiet stretches, I am happy. We paddle rhythmically, I pause to take a photo, to consider all that is around me.










But an hour into the trip, the river becomes tricky. We pause at the side and think about the right strategy for the rapid before us. And we plunge forward. Successfully. Ed loves rapids and he navigates them well.

I’m shouting back a “well done!” cheer, when our kayak strikes a large branch jutting out of the safe path between the boulders.

Neither of expected the sudden jolt and flip of the boat. I am submerged and thinking – damn! I’m under the boat and in the water.

We were sort of prepared for the worst. Bags were sealed and tied down. Ed’s shoes were tied down. But we were a trifle sloppy. My shoes were suddenly bouncing along with the current some distance from the boat. I am clinging to the paddle, Ed is clinging to the kayak, his paddle, and hunting for my shoes.

I cannot get my footing. The current is strong, the stones are covered with slippery growth. Definitely, my contributions to the rescue effort is minimal. All I can do is hold on to the paddle and get myself to shore.

I climb up the stones, leaving Ed to fight the current as he chases down first one shoe then the other. I stand on the stones feeling completely helpless and still a little confused. How did we wind up under the boat??

With a lot of strength, chutzpah and luck, Ed manages to rescue it all. We review the damage: Ed’s bags from home had kept my camera and the computers safely dry. Pretty much everything else is wet. (Take note, Lake Insh Water Sports Center: you need waterproof dry bags!)

In fact, I am not a little lucky: there isn’t any permanent loss. One banged up toe and a lot of wetness, but even though I’m cold, the sun is out from behind a cloud and I slowly stop shivering as I give in to its warm, calming rays. But I am shaken by the experience and when we get back into the kayak, I become obsessed with avoiding a repeat of the flip. As the boulders and rapids continue (in truth, never beyond level 3), I worry at each turn about navigating. Twice, I get out of the boat and walk as Ed works the river.

And that’s when I decide that one day of this has been perfect for me but I need to stop now. The joy has been shoved to the side as I have slipped into the constant worry mode. This, in spite of the incredible beauty of the land around us. From the middle of the river, even the ubiquitous sheep are still enchanting and for once innocuous – ticks don’t jump water, so far as I know.








(a very pregnant ewe)


And so I suggest that Ed continue the next day without me (it’s not possible to get him to stop now, not with only a fourth of the river trip – maybe some 20 miles -- behind us), and that I make my way to the mouth of the river on land, to meet up after several days at the Bay of Spey.


2. The People of Boat of Garten

We haul our gear up the banks of the Spey and down the road into town. I look around for someone to be out and about so that I can ask about rooms and food. A woman is working in her yard. I call out to her.

Meet Valerie McDonald Fairweather. Was it good fortune to find her in the garden? Oh, more than that. It spun the day around and made it brilliant. (And I use the term in the American way, because in Britain, everything is “brilliant,” – the right change, the proper direction, mail delivered to your hand, etc.)





Through our many conversations, I learn that she is an artist, married (Valerie - to a much younger man! Ed – is he number four or five? Valerie – you’re cheeky, aren't you! Actually number two, and number one was much older, I can’t seem to match with men my own age), learning Gaelic (Valerie – my grandfather spoke it), knows every trail in the National Park here (Valerie – I climbed that summit with Kevin on my sixtieth birthday), -- oh, and so much more.

She insists on hanging out our wet gear to dry, points us to a b&b in town and tells us to come back and give her a report on our progress.



(Valerie and Kevin's home, our gear)



We eat dinner at Anderson’s. I finally am brave enough to order Scottish lamb stew (sorry, all you sheep out there! I had to try it!) and it is quite wonderful.














Anderson’s is the new Scotland. We’ve seen a lot of that – a gradual move toward a new style of cooking, a new way with bed and breakfasts. Indeed, nearly every b&b we have stayed in is run by escapees from England (“quit the rat race in London,” or – “came here because I loved vacationing in Scotland when I was younger,” etc). I think the food, too, has benefited from the pressure from the outside world.

(For a comparison with the “old ways” see my next post – tomorrow!)

The next morning, we pick up our dried out gear at Valerie’s. (Valerie – I hung it up properly. Your husband just threw it on the line. Ed – husband? Valerie – oh, well, I didn’t get married immediately either! No reason to really. Ocean author, to herself – we’ll just let that one roll by.) We’re in her studio – shared with her husband, the guitar maker. We admire her art here and throughout her house.





I want one of her prints, but even at her reasonable prices, I can’t afford it. I promise to purchase something if at the end of the trip, if I have cash left over.

I send Ed off (Valerie, standing on her toes to peck his cheeky cheek – good bye, flower pot – I call people that, don’t know why…) on his boat journey, solo now. I watch from the bridge – the kayak is there still, on the beach, where we left it (on the far right of the photo).





I exhale. It’s a good decision not to continue (I am noting, too, that every day, the temperatures are dropping and a cloud cover has taken over the once blue skies), but somehow, I did not expect our time here to move in this direction. I go back to chat a little more with Valerie before my bus arrives. A friend, a comforting presence. Listening to her talk is like a long yoga stretch on the central nervous system: when all is done, I feel a million pounds lighter.


I wait at the stop for my bus back to Inverness (it is unfortunately the case that if you want to go up north to a point just thirty miles from where you are, you need to go back to a bus hub (eg Inverness) and start all over again). Someone is tapping me on my shoulder.

What are you doing here – she asks me?
I can’t place her. I am like that: put a person in a different context and I haven’t a clue who they are. (With a few exceptions. I always know who daughters are, for example.)
I’m Susanna. From the Boat Center, where you and Ed rented the kayak. Why aren’t you on it and where is Ed?
I explain. My turn now: and what are you doing here? I know she is from Spain, working in Scotland, but why is she here, in this tiny village of Boat of Graten?
I live here. I’m the single mum now and this is a very nice place to raise a child. And Britain in general is kind to single mums: we get a nanny allowance if we work after our year off. I could not work without it.





Ah yes. These stories make me cringe. No developed country is less hospitable to the working parent than the U.S.

We talk a while. You made friends with Valerie? Good. She’ll keep me posted of how you are doing in life.


I settle into the comfortable bus seat and make my way back to the gateway to the Highlands, where I catch another series of buses that, by evening, spit me out at the mouth of the River Spey in Garmouth.

the River Spey, the Highlands, Scotland

Calm beginnings. Still waters.





The photo is from the kayak my frequent travel companion, Ed and I picked up at Loch Insh, in the Cairngorms National Park of northern Scotland. Much has changed since then. I’m off the River Spey (while to the best of my knowledge, Ed is still on it, or in it, depending). But, I have only a minute to post as I wait for my bus, so the story (and there is a story) must wait.

As soon as I find a good Internet connection, I’ll continue. Perhaps later tonight.