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It was almost jarring to see the handful of cars parked nearby. Without those, I could easily imagine a woman with three or four children at her knee, all smiling as her fisherman husband brought home the day’s catch. Or maybe the two of them farmed together, battling the vagaries of the weather to survive.
When I walked back to the Jeep, I climbed in and sat for a bit without starting the engine, gazing out to sea and thinking. There was nothing between me and the horizon but water. Lots of water. To me the ocean was beautiful and awe-inspiring. What must it have been to an islander two hundred years ago?
Did they see the mysterious depths as an enemy to be bested? Or was the water as familiar and ever-present to them as the skyline of Atlanta was to me? I had the luxury of jets and trains and cars to undergird my wanderlust. The Scots who inhabited these modest, almost claustrophobic cottages were trapped by their circumstances. In sickness and in health, they had only each other.
When my stomach began to growl, I headed on my way. The road curved now, back in the direction I had come, though I was a good distance from Portree. I picked a pleasant spot to pull off the highway and climbed out to have my picnic. With the wind, the logistics were difficult. I sat down on a convenient rock and made do.
I’d picked up some modest supplies in the village. The peanut butter and crackers were more than enough to satisfy me. Food came a poor second to the day’s adventures.
Inevitably, I thought about Finley. I’d left him a note as a matter of courtesy and indicated I probably wouldn’t be back for dinner. I wasn’t pouting or trying to make a point. All I was doing was what he had suggested. Making the most of my vacation.
I was glad I had waited for nice weather to do this long loop of the island. I hugged the west coast now. Next on the list was a visit to Dunvegan Castle, purported to be the oldest continuously inhabited castle in all of Scotland. Dunvegan was the clan seat and stronghold of the McLeod chieftains—and had been for over 800 years.
Though there were many beautiful and romantic castle ruins in the Highlands and throughout Scotland, Dunvegan was a well-cared-for gem. I followed the tour guide from room to room, trying to memorize the snippets of history she shared in her thick accent.
In the large dining room, animal trophies stared down from their vantage points high on the walls. Glass-topped cases held smaller treasures. I spent time reading hand-lettered explanatory index cards whose ink had faded over the years. While our guide was answering questions, I spoke to the older man who stood at attention in the doorway.
I surmised his job was to spot any would-be thieves. He was friendly enough when I approached him. An enormous window at the end of the room near him looked out over the inlet bracketing one side of the castle grounds. The old panes of glass were wavy, though, making it hard to focus my camera lens. I wanted to get an atmospheric shot of the shallows where lichen-covered rocks protruded.
To my surprise, the quasi-guard seemed quite sympathetic to my struggles and offered to lift the window so I could position the camera and shoot without interference. As soon as he did so, a welcome breeze swept into the room. On this August afternoon, the rooms were stuffy despite the thick castle walls.
When the house portion of the tour concluded, we were invited to linger and explore the grounds. The Dunvegan gardens were lush and colorful. The scent of newly mown grass mingled with the unmistakable fragrance of warm weather blossoms.
Even though my Atlanta summers were far more humid and sweltering, there was something familiar and universal about the buzzing of bumblebees and the twitter of birds. A few large trees offered welcome shade. I sat down beneath one of them on a concrete bench and closed my eyes. Had the bench been a tad more comfortable, I might have taken a nap.
When I returned to the graveled parking lot, I was yawning. The little village was barely more than a mile away. I’d been told there was a B&B there with a restaurant that served local seafood. I made it a point when traveling to seek out the charming, quirky places that had a passion for homegrown or home harvested, as in the cold waters around Skye. Hamish’s establishment was one of those, The Lonesome Shepherd another.
I dined on smoked salmon and sautéed carrots with blueberry crumble for desert. When I finished, I knew my waistband was tighter than when I went in. I didn’t regret a single calorie.
Playing tourist distorted time. I’d told myself when the morning began that I had an entire day at my disposal, yet already it was getting late. I didn’t want to be driving unfamiliar roads in the dark. I’d already seen how that turned out. Once. Wrecking Finley’s vehicle was not on my top ten list of exciting things to do in Scotland.
Resisting the urge to pull off at any scenic overlooks, I pointed the Jeep south and headed toward Sligachan on the A863. Without stops, the miles flew by. Soon I hit the junction with A87 and headed back north toward Portree to complete my wobbly loop. Actually, on the map my route resembled the two chambers of a heart.
There was more to explore in the southern part of the island, the Cuillin Hills in particular. Maybe I could persuade Finley to go hiking with me one day. The area was more remote and not as easily accessed. I’d feel better having a companion for that leg of my adventures.
Though I was tired and ready to be home, my hands gripped the steering wheel tightly in the last few miles. A hotel would have been lonely and impersonal. At least there I wouldn’t have to confront the man who had seen me naked yesterday.
