The Road to Skye
By Anne Spackman
Copyright 2014
By Anne Spackman
Ian climbed the outer wall of the crumbling old castle in the middle of the field. He vaulted down, crushing nettles, thistles, and high grasses in his fall.
“Shit,” he remarked, having ripped and stained his jeans in his fall. And his knees had been jarred a bit.
Ian picked himself up, and brushed himself off. The nettles were the worst—they stung for ages if they pricked the skin, but the thistles were pretty purple and in bloom that July. A few birds sang, the air smelled sweet, and there wasn’t a soul around for miles.
Ian walked around the inside of the derelict castle—he was overjoyed with his discovery—a ruined castle, out there in the middle of nowhere. He peered in a barred window, but there was no sound within the castle. The wooden door had been sealed shut with great bolts. He decided to wander around, and after a few minutes, he found his way back to the road.
Ian boarded a bus in the nearest town and kept going.
Ian was traveling all around Scotland by train, bus, and car. And having the adventure of a lifetime. He had gotten a book on Scotland and had decided to visit every ancient monument that captured his fancy. He really enjoyed visiting castles, and Celtic and a few Roman monuments, such as the Antonine Wall.
That night, Ian went out for a meal at a pub in Stirling, where live music was playing.
“What will you have?” asked the waiter.
“A starter of haggis and oat cakes, and some fish n’ chips, no peas. One McEwans’s Lager.”
“You know what haggis is made from?” asked the waiter.
“No.”
“Well, it’s sheep or lamb with oat ground up. Hope you like it.”
“I am so tired and hungry, I am sure it will taste fine,” said Ian, without thinking about it first what he was going to say.
The meal came, and the haggis was rather good. The fish and chips were battered, and really tasty.
Ian walked back to the youth hostel some time later, and was feeling exhausted. It was 8 p.m. He retired early. He had a big day ahead tomorrow.
Ian caught a bus going North early the next morning from Stirling.
The bus for Ft. William seemed to take forever. Ian went through the Scottish Highlands on the tour, and he took a hundred photos of the mountains. Waterfalls trickled down the sides of the great slopes. The views were stunning. The bus stopped at Ft. William later that afternoon, where Ian was staying and where he planned to climb the great mountain Ben Nevis the next day. It was a long hike up the slope, as Ben Nevis was Scotland’s biggest mountain.
“Are you here to climb Ben Nevis?” came the trilling lovely voice of a Scottish young woman at the bed and breakfast in Ft. William. Ian was in the lobby, getting ready to talk to the proprietor.
Ian turned around. The Scottish young woman was pretty, with long brown hair and dark eyes.
“Yes,” he answered.
“I thought so,” she said with a smile. “This bed and breakfast is really near to Ben Nevis, and most of the travelers passing through here are headed that way. But you might want to try visiting the Isle of Skye if you have time on your holidays. It’s really lovely there as well. The Black Hills—the Cuillins they’re also called, are very nice as well. A lot of people enjoy Skye.”
“Well thank you for the advice, Miss—”
“McKenzie. Mary McKenzie.”
“I might try it, once I have already climbed Ben Nevis. I had planned to spend an extra day in Edinburgh, but I could go to Skye instead. I’ll have a look in my book tonight.”
* * * * *
Climbing Ben Nevis proved absolutely exhausting, though Ian didn’t go up the steep slope that was far more dangerous.
Ben Nevis, a large mountain, was really a day hike climbing it, and it took everything out of him. Ian had forgotten the night before to investigate a trip to Skye, but it was only 3 p.m. when he finished climbing Ben Nevis and came back down, so he went into Ft. William, and visited the tourist centre, where he asked for some information on the Isle of Skye. He discovered that Bonnie Prince Charlie had fled to Skye after the failure of the Jacobite Rebellion with the defeat at the Battle of Culloden in 1746—so Skye had some interesting history, and it was one of the larger islands in the Scottish Hebrides.
Ian decided to go the next day to Skye via the bridge at Kyle of Lochalsh. From there he would take his rental car—which he was getting that evening—down to the small town of Elgol so that he could visit the Black Hills, the Cuillins. Ian decided that this would be enough driving for one day, and there were hikes along the way which he might stop and do.
“So, did you have a good time on the mountain today?” asked Mary McKenzie when he ran into her again at the bed and breakfast.
“Do you work here?”
“Yes, my parents own the bed and breakfast,” replied Mary. “We get so many tourists coming here that we also hire help over the summer.”
Mary was a pretty young woman in her early twenties, or seemed to be about that age.
“Yes, to answer your question, I had a great day. And I’m going to Skye tomorrow—thanks for the advice.”
“I’m glad you decided to go. I love Skye. Have been all around it, even up to Dunvegan Castle, seat of the Clan MacCleod.”
“Did you say MacCleod?! That sounds interesting. I may have to take a detour.”
“It takes a while to get there, as the roads are small and sometimes just single lane roads with passing places.”
“Again, thanks for the information,” said Ian. “If you trusted a stranger, would you consider taking me there—to Dunvegan Castle?”
“I don’t really know you,” Mary said, shaking her head.
“You’re right,” said Ian. “I just was hoping for a moment for a tour guide. I understand completely, though—you don’t know me. Hope you don’t mind that I asked.”
“Not at all. You seem very nice, but I have a rule not to get involved with any of the patrons.”
“I see, you were just being friendly earlier.”
“Yes, I suppose,” Mary replied. “I want you to have a nice visit.”
“Well, thank you,” said Ian. “I hope I do.”