from Raasay Island, the Inner Hebrides, Scotland

We’re walking back from our last hike on Skye. It’s evening, but the sun is still with us. June, the month of the white nights: even as it sets, the night light turns from dusk to dawn and in the space of a few hours the sun is with us again. I love this about the north, even as I dislike the seasons of darkness that inevitably must follow.

In someone’s front yard, there is a car with a For Sale sign on it.
How much, do you think?
I glance at the price – L550.
Really? That’s pretty cheap. Ed walks over to take a closer look at the ten year old Saab.
The owner comes out the front door. We’re just curious – we explain.
No problem.
Is it in good condition?
Yeh, we just don’t use it. Figure someone else could maybe take it over.
It’s a good price, but, unfortunately, the wheel is on the funny side – Ed says.
The owner laughs. I figured you couldn’t take it back in your packs.

We don’t have to take it back, I tell Ed. We’ll keep it here, on Skye and use it each time we come, which maybe should be quite often.

The Skye bug has bit me hard.

But in the morning, we have to leave, at least this corner of the island. The following day we’ll be making connections back to Edinburgh and there isn’t a good way to do that if you begin your journey in sleepy Elgol.

Sleepy indeed. People here work on Skye time, Leslie (Robin’s wife) tells us. We’re having the hot water tank replaced today. Several years ago, we were told that the old one is ready to explode. We said – change it! So now, today, they finally decided to show up.

We wave good bye and heave our sacks to the side of the road to wait for the bus back to Broadford. Send us an email when you get safely back home! Robin calls out.


We rumble back along the one lane road. Suddenly so familiar. Red Cuillins, Black Cuillins. Sheep fields, inlets, mountains across the sound.


We’ll be overnighting in Broadford, but we still have a good part of the day for other pleasures. I suggest a ferry trip to the further Hebrides island of Raasay.

In Broadford, at the bus stop (we need yet another bus to take us to the ferry landing up north), we weigh our options. We have all our gear with us. The bus is about to pull up. A Skye man listens to the deliberations. Just leave it with the ferry boys, they’ll take care of it for ya.

At the ferry landing, the wind is giving us a good whipping. I’m happy that there is an indoor space for the twenty minute ride across the sound. Skye weather. Always the subject before you, always setting the pace for the day. But how is it that an island so much farther north than Wisconsin never has snow? And can let you feel a sprinkle on the face, even as the sky looks mostly blue? (Ed tells me -- it's like you: you're the only one I know who can laugh and cry all at the same time!)

We leave our packs on the boat. We’ll be catching the late afternoon one back! I shout against the wind.


The island is a springtime marvel. Wild rhododendrons are crazily overflowing with pink blooms. And they grow everywhere – on hills, in forests, lining the sheep fields, the roads, the waterfront.





We have in mind a hike around the southern end of Raasay. This is a place of great tales of the MacLeod clan and the name still dominates the island. You can see it on the Memorial to island war heroes of the Great War (and then subsequently, on the other side of the monument, of the Second World War).





I want to see the Raasay House, where James Boswell once partied with Macleod and "his ten beautiful daughters" (so the books say). I never asked for whiskey in my porridge (some b&bs offer it), but I hear he had a splendid start to the day with it, before setting out on his own Raasay hike.

We stay to the shoreline at first. Past a lovely playing field, with a posted sign: "please do not use on Sundays."





And then we come to a police tape. The road is cordoned off. A man in uniform ambles over.

We want to see the Raasay House.
Can’t. It burned down.
Oh! When?
Just this January.
Why?
Don’t know yet. The inspector is still investigating.
No clues?
No. He’s also the fire chief and the police chief around here. Small island.
You’re not from here?
No, from Inverness. They hired us to guard the place.

I point to the construction down by the waterfront. What are they building there?
A new dock. The old one is falling apart. This one should have been finished years ago.
They work on Skye time?
Actually no. They’re English. Slow on the job.
(Ah. Make no assumptions.)
Well, anyway, it’s a fine day!
Aye, first time in a while. Rains all the time here.

We bypass the tragically blackened skeleton of the Raasay House and head further north. Past "the gardener’s cottage" (whose gardens does he tend?)…



(to the gardner:) Good day! First fine one in a long time here, no?
Aye, fine day. But, not the first, no. Wee sprinkle in the mornings, then sun, two weeks straight now!
(Ah. It’s all in how you regard it.)

The views to Skye and the sea beyond are incredible.





From the shore up toward the narrow road, sheep fields are bordered by carefully built stone walls.





The island may be small (just 14 miles long and maybe 3 miles across), but it is handsomely tended.

We turn off toward the forest – a spooky place of fallen timbers (a wind storm? Island weather!) and secret walls and within them, secret gardens.





Raasay feels different. Greener than the craggy Skye.

We pause at the one place on the island where you can get a refreshment. It will remain in my mind as the most atmospheric café of this trip.





I ask for tea and scones with jam and we sit there, at the wooden table, letting the streaming sun warm the quiet space around us.





A child pokes her head out from behind the door. There is laughter on the other side of the wall. Family life. But whose? I can’t tell. Like the secret wall and garden, the fire, the fallen forest, it is a part of the island that will remain unknown to us, the strangers passing through.





Ed asks – can we skip the next ferry and stay a bit longer? It’s so nice here.

And we do. He reads a book he finds on the history of the iron mine here (worked by German POWs during the Second World War). I read a magazine about the Hebrides. Minutes pass. The last ferry will be leaving for Skye soon.

We head back. Past the row houses where miners once lived...





Past the laundry, fiercely buffeted by the wind from the north...




... to the boat landing, where the ferry is about to deliver provisions from the mainland and from Skye, and pick us up for the journey back.





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



One last evening walk along the shores of the Isle of Skye …





One last dinner – of fish stew, along with the heady Skye beer, golden and rich…





One last white night on the islands.

from Loch Coruisk, Isle of Skye, Scotland

Elgol, the small fishing village to the west of Skye, has at least three claims to fame: it’s home to a good seafood restaurant – the Coruisk House, where we also happen to be staying…





(we’re in the building to the left – Robin, the owner, has turned it into a three room plus bathroom guesthouse); and, secondly, at the very tip of the village, there is a pier from which a small boat can take about a dozen people to the mouth of Lake Coruisk; and finally, Elgol is the beginning, or the end (depending on how you take it) of one of the most beautiful trails in all of Great Britain – from the lake, along the shoreline to Elgol.

You would think that hiking it would be a sure thing for us. But I’ve been waffling -- on account of the well known in the area, much talked about, and amply described in guide books “Bad Steps.”

But when you wake up to another splendid day of cloud and sun, you begin to think that maybe one should give the trail careful consideration. And so we set out – by boat to Lake Coruisk and from there, if the mood stays, hike back to Elgol.

I’m in a chirpy mood. It’s so beastly lucky to have this spell of bright skies. The breezes are strong and so the midges have stayed away, the rains have stayed away as well – all in all, it’s been near perfect out here, on the Isle of Skye.

We walk the meandering road down to the sea, passing the usual sheep of every size and hue.










At the dock, we look toward the mountains, hiding the lake that is our destination for the day. A small group has gathered for the trip. Most have binoculars. Bird watchers.










The captain of the tiny boat goes through safety advice and we set off. The waters are calm, the views toward the hills – magnificent!





He talks about the islands to the west of us. Once fishing communities (shark fishing was big here once), now nearly empty. These days, Skye fishermen bring in shellfish. Lobsters make their way to Spain, where they're sold at popular seaside restaurants. They're eating Skye lobsters and they don't even know it! -- the captain tells us. Yes, I've seen the traps on shore. Plenty of them.





As we get nearer to the lake, he shouts out – anyone walking back? Ed and I raise our hands. We’re the only ones. Well then, let me spin the boat around toward the Bad Steps. You should take a look and decide if you’re up for it.

We pull up close to the shore line: the Bad Steps are a cliff that shoots out at a very minor angle from the sea. There is no way to get around it except to lean flat against it and make your way across it (a distance of some 8 meters) by finding foot holds in the small crevices. There’s nothing to hold on to, nothing to keep you from tumbling to the sea below.





We heard stories about this place – how two tourists threw everything they owned into the water and plastered themselves naked against the rock, hoping to lighten the load, how two women started out bravely enough, then terror took hold and they remained for hours stuck, unable to move one way or the other, how our very own host, Robin, had to make his way across the rock to help someone who froze right there in the middle of the rock – on and on. Big tales, little tales, we’ve heard them all.

You would think that there’s no chance that I would want to join the list of tales. I remember well my most terrifying hiking experience to date – when I froze on a slope of endless scree high up in the Canadian Rockies. I have issues with heights and precipitous drops.

And in the end, this is why ultimately I decided to hike the Bad Steps: manipulating the rock is hard, but the drop isn’t significant: 10 meters down and you’re in the water. Rocky, sure, but I figure the price of a slip would be a few broken bones rather than certain death.

[I should insert a disclaimer here: in all our hikes, what I consider to be dangerous or terrifying, Ed calls tame and inconsequential. So do note that there is another perspective to all this. Neither is less real than the other. Robin, an expert rock climber, tells us of his friend who is world renowned in his ability to manage great climbs. When asked – how do you do it? He answers – I do very well at 10,000 feet what most people can do very well at 10. In other words – there’s a lot of mind play here. If you think it’s easy, it’s easier. If you think it’s hard – as I so often do – it becomes much tougher.]

The boat pulls away from the Bad Steps and moves slowly toward the tip of the lake. I take my mind off the hike and focus on the slabs of rock. Harbor seals are everywhere. Their heads bop out of the water and then disappear. Their cousins and friends are spread out on shore, resting, as if the very effort of lifting a flipper and rolling their blubber bodies over is too much on this pleasant day.





We pull up to shore and disembark. The boat will pick up the day trippers later. Except for Ed and me.

We hike to the lake first. Turner painted it, guides rave about it. Take a look at the jagged peaks, so majestic over the body of fresh water.






And now it’s time to start the hike back. It’s not a short walk under the best of circumstances. For us – five hours at least. If I can make it across the slab of stone.





This last photo shows just the beginning of the cliff part. I handed my camera over to Ed once I felt that even it’s slight sway was making me jumpy.

I wont go through all the minutes (hours?) I spent on that slab – the words of I can’t, alternating with I wont. My shoes had a decent grip, but often I could not find even a crevice to attach my hand to. My back against the rock, fingers searching for any nubbin of stone – it all was part of the drama. But the reality is that once you get your mind to let go of all the I can’ts, you move forward. (Especially if there is an Ed who makes the journey ahead of you and then comes back to suggest the best possible ways to navigate the cliff.) And so, eventually I inched across. As others have done in the past and will continue to do in the years ahead.


After that, I would like to say the hike was a breeze. And it probably would be for most anyone. For me, it remained a bit of a challenge because of sudden drop issues. Still, there was no more scrambling against stone slabs. In tough areas of sheer drop, I have learned to look anywhere but down.

And when it was okay to look across, the views were predictably stunning.


















We pass almost no one. Just sheep.















One last glance back at the sea, the hills and cliffs, the flowers along the trail...









And by evening, we are back in Elgol.





Exhausted, spiritually upbeat, hungry.

At dinner (of traditional Scottish cod and the most wonderful Skye beer), Robin tells us – then there was this couple who went over the Bad Steps with their little dog. That was tragic!
Oh! Did the dog die?
No, but he fell into the water and broke his foot.

from Elgol on the Isle of Skye, Scotland

We wake up to our first morning on this northern island. Not to be believed! In between the high clouds, there are streaks of blue sky. The forecaster was wrong: we will have a bright day ahead.

And that’s so important, here, on the Isle of Skye. I’ve heard stories where you can travel here for a week and never understand that the beauty of the landscape is in the rugged Black and Red Cuillins (“an adrenalin-drenched challenge with sublime hill and sea vistas” says one book). It’s not unusual for them to be completely hidden on a typical low-cloud cover day.

Downstairs, Tony and his wife (and their little boy) fix us a superb breakfast. Eggs, salmon, yogurt, heaps of fresh fruit, muesli, toasts, and jam made from the berries of Skye.

We eat leisurely. There are only two buses to where we are heading today and we’ve already missed the first.

Our son is jumping off the wall this mornin’ I think he’s so worked up on account of the sun, Tony says.

Well, me too. We pack up our gear and hike up to the village (Broadford -- the second largest on the island) toward the bus stop.









There is a narrow, one lane road that winds up the hills and down to Elgol, a small fishing village on the other side of the island. It dead ends there, so that the bus (a small vehicle that seats maybe two dozen) turns around and comes right back again.

The driver is not in a hurry. Realizing that I liked taking photos, he pulls over several times and suggests a shot here or there. But really, he drives slowly enough (what with the sheep on the road and the occasional car going the other way) that I can take plenty from the seat of the bus.



the older Red Cuillins





the younger Black Cuillins

Finally, he comes to a sharp stop. You’re here, he tells us.

Elgol is small (population: 75) and so I hardly notice that we are anywhere. True, somewhere down the road, there is, they say, a wee general store. And even a coffee shop that stays open only during slow times (“the man doesn’t like to work so if it gets too busy, he closes shop”). And a school with 15 pupils, ages 5 - 11. Where we're dropped, there is also a restaurant with rooms. For two nights, this will be home for us.


Robin, the restaurateur/inn keeper is yet a repeat of the same old story – lived in England, came here as a child, returned for good.

I should learn about people here in Scotland who hold a passion for outdoor life: they think and talk differently than I do. Andy, down at the Water Sports Center, the man who rented out the kayak to us, claimed the rapids were nothing more than a ripple, to be scooted over with hardly a thought. And now, here I am engaged in the same back and forth with Robin:

Can you suggest a hike for today?
Do you like mountains?
Well, yes, but (and listen, Robin, these are serious buts!) I don’t like big drop offs or paths that go through cascading scree.
But you’re okay with going straight up?
Yes… (he has to realize that I have my pride).
And you’re fast enough?
Here Ed jumps in to put a reality check: Robin, we’re old.
Robin laughs. On my sixtieth I practically ran up the mountain, just to prove that I can.
I’m thinking – I’m 56. I can do this. Without the run of course.

He gives us some tips. Follow the path toward the bay and then veer toward the heath. Just go up, cross country, until you get to the ridge. If it feels like it’s too much, turn back. But, you’ve got the weather for it, that’s for sure.

We head out. Initially, it is an easy trail. We know where we're going: toward the jagged peaks of the Skye hills.






But an hour into the trek comes the challenge. The path up the mountain tapers off. We are on our own. We scramble across heather-covered banks, past streams, up up toward the ridgeline (before the peaks, there is a saddle which we think we can manage without the need to climb rocks).







first heather buds


As the incline sharpens and the boulders turn into cliff-like structures, I waver. I have a wild and uncontrollable imagination as to tumbling down steep mountains. We haven’t a trail: we’re making it up as we go along. A slip and a fall would be bad news: too many ways to crack your head on the boulders even before you get half way down the mountain. Though, damn it, it would be a beautiful roll down to the sea!





When it becomes clear that we need to finish the climb on our hands and knees, I’m ready to call it quits.

And yet, we’re so close to the ridge! Still, I say to Ed – let’s turn back. He’s agreeable. This is no place to push someone to do more. As we retreat, I do an about face and, without comment, head back up. I don’t know what switch went off in my mind, but suddenly, reaching the ridge becomes all important. Look ahead, don't look down, keep steady, I'm only 56, I'm not running, shut off the imagination, don't slip, just a few more steps, well maybe more than just a few...

And we're there!



(the other side of the mountain)


The wind is vicious up there! I am convinced that it will toss us down if we linger – and now with a choice: I can tumble on either side of the mountain!





We don’t linger. Going down is arduous, but without the scare, it’s simply a matter of finding an optimal way to reach bottom.

Ed mutters – sheep do this without batting an eye. I mutter back – they have four legs.

Sheep do this, deer do this. Magnificent, fearless stag.





The clouds are hovering over the peaks now. An occasional gust of sprinkles hits us, but we know we're safe from big showers.





As we head home, we look at the extraordinary sky, showing off all that it can do in one corner of the island.






Seven hours later (it took us that long to do the hike) we're back in our room next to the restaurant. I’m delighted with the platter of local seafood that Robin cooks up for us (including the delicious Skye "squatties" – little langoustine-like shellfish that I’ve not seen before).





Ed is dozing off before our plates are cleared. I tell him to go on to sleep. I’ll finish up here. With a glass of port to give a sweet taste to the end of an island day.