warning: this is going to be long, long, loooong.

I wasn’t certain what to expect from Skye. I’d been so caught up in preparations for the beginnings of my Easter break travels I never really stopped to plan the last few days, outside of buying bus tickets with Alyssa. I’d heard Skye was beautiful, but I really had no knowledge of what kind of beauty to expect, besides the water. “Isle of Skye,” island is right in the title after all.

Eventually we made it through the wilderness (ha), past Glencoe and Fort William. I hadn’t even known whether it’d take a ferry to get us to Skye, and I was slightly disappointed when we crossed by bridge. Whenever I’m near water, I want desperately to be out on it.

It took another hour or so to drive up the island, and the scenery was marvelous. Sea lochs everywhere, little rivers and streams cutting through rock face, trickling down from hills that looked more like mountains. Cliffs towered over glittering water, and then crammed in between sea level and height shrouded in fog were grassy fields. It was strange to see that much variety stuffed onto a single patch of land.

Eventually we reached Portree, one of the island’s bustling towns. Alyssa had decided it seemed like a good Skye home base, and it proved itself nicely. Buses left to Uig, Dunveagan, and other places of interest, and Portree itself was a lovely little town. The first evening we took it easy, thoroughly exhausted from travel, getting up so early, and the excitement of it all. We explored Portree, walking up to a pseudo-tower (where we decided all the rebellious Portree boys go to smoke cigarettes) and admiring the view. We ate fish and chips on the pier with our feet dangling over the water, hoping the gulls wouldn’t snatch the food out of our hands. In Portree 5 quid buys an enormous portion of super-fresh fish that is impossible to eat by oneself.
We went back to the hostel, expecting to rest before heading back out again. Giggling over ridiculous folk music soon replaced napping, and napping quickly turned into night-sleep.

The next morning we decided to take an 11:40 bus to Uig. To kill time we bought a lunch of cheese and crackers from the grocery store to pack for later and then wandered down to the water, meandering down the road that traced the bay. After admiring a waterfall a little ways into the woods we turned back, continuing up the road. Looking for a breakfast picnic spot we walked off the road towards a boat ramp, only to discover the gravel pathway was a trail that looped for 5-6 miles around Portree’s cliffs. The sky was blue and the path was too tempting, and we discarded our previous plan of Uig.

We didn’t regret it; within a few minutes the town of Portree was out of sight, and we were captivated by the shimmering Loch and its surrounding green cliffs. We climbed up the path for awhile, eventually coming up above and beside a group of large rings in the water. It became immediately clear that the rings housed fish, and we stood there watching the large things jump out of the water, as if dancing. Nets over the rings kept them protected from the gulls, and we were told later that Salmon are raised here. I watched them for awhile, scanning the water until… finally! I’d been keeping a look out for seals, because every time I look out on the water I can’t help but hope I’ll see some sort of creature pop its head out. But for once it wasn’t my imagination combined with a little swell of water! Sure enough it was a little head surveying the fish, certainly hoping for a little snack. I watch the little seal for a long time, watching until he dove under and then scanning the water in hopes he would resurface again. He seemed to be enjoying himself in the afternoon sun, and I certainly couldn’t blame him. The weather was lovely.

We continued walking until we discovered the path veered off from the shoreline. We’d expected this eventually, considering the path was a loop after all. The cliffs ahead just looked so appealing, and the prospect of hiking away from the water couldn’t compete. Instead we climbed through a small opening in the the stone wall, joining the sheep in their pastures. They didn’t bother us and we didn’t both them, apart from admiring from afar. They all had small curved horns and friendly looking faces, although the latter is an attribute most sheep share (in my own opinion anyways). We continued through the fields, making our way slowly upwards and taking breaks to clamber to the edge of the cliffs, peering out at the water and down at the beach below. We soon discovered the family of rabbits that called the hills home, and they hurried about, 6 or 7 in our line of vision at a time.

As we neared the highest place (eventually the hills melted into the cliffs, shifting into a steep incline that seemed unnavigable) the weather turned Scottish. Dark clouds blew in from behind and the wind picked up, threatening to toss us into the loch (although its strength was still gentler than the winds of the Cliffs of Mohor). As it began to rain we ducked behind a big rock, leaning our backs against it for a bit of cover from the wind. It was surprising how helpful the stone proved to be. After patiently eating Pringles and Star Mix for a few minutes the storm soon passed, replaced once again by blue.

We turned back soon after, making our way down the hills towards where we’d come. The seal was still watching the Salmon longingly, the sheep continued to lounge and munch, and the rabbits frolicked.

I just remembered that I should take a minute to discuss the hostel. Looking out onto the loch, this hostel was, without doubt, the best hostel ever-ever-ever. The view was amazing. Everything was super clean, a stark contrast to the only other hostel I’ve ever experienced. The self-catering kitchen was spotlessly wonderful stainless steel; the dishes were clean. The bathrooms… oh, the bathrooms. Clean-clean-clean, and the shower was most definitely superior and more sanitary than the shower in my Glasgow flat, and probably the shower back home in B-more. The hostel managers were super-friendly and helpful. All this for £12 a night, well worth it.

Anyways, when we returned to the hostel from our hike we greeted Murdo (the hostel owner/manager, a fellow with an accent that sounded convincingly like both Irish AND Scottish, as impossible as that may sound) and George (a hostel worker who had a bad case of Aleopecia and whose granny was a knitter). We asked Murdo what sorts of suggestions he had for adventuring the following day and he thoughtfully asked if we could spare £20. We agreed, hoping he had something exceedingly excellent in mind. He picked up his mobile to call a mystery man named “Dennis” who promised to get back to him. We thanked Murdo and made tea, curious about this Dennis character and the sort of tour-thing that might await us.

For some reason or another Dennis showed up shortly there-after, and Murdo brought him into the dining room for introductions. Dennis… it’s hard to describe someone so wonderful. Immediately it became obviously clear that a tour with Dennis would be unforgettable and well worth 20 quid.

The next day we cafe-hopped, wasting time before the Dennis tour that was supposed to start between 2pm and 3. I ate a biscuit and a bridie (a pastry with various meat fillings; mine was chicken and corn) at a surprisingly inexpensive bakery, coffee and a piece of shortbread at a neighboring cafe, and then drank tea and shared chips with Alyssa at ‘Well Plaid.’ Finally 2 rolled around and we skedaddled back to our hostel. Dennis was already there waiting for us!

If you haven’t already guessed, Dennis (formally “Martin Dennis Briggs”) is the man in the first picture, pointing out scenery.
If you haven’t already guessed, Dennis may or may not be the love of my life.

The tour turned out to be quite private, consisting of me and Alyssa riding in the back of Dennis’s red van. He referred to us (as well as any lambs we caught sight of) as “darlings,” sheep as “wooly jumpers,” chickens as “cluck-clucks,” and the newspaper as “his daily devils.” He’s English, but he lamented the greater education that might have been his had his parents stayed in Scotland for his childhood. He plays the cello in the local orchestra and takes lessons from a woman who lives not too far away. He can also somewhat play the piano, and can tell easily by ear if a piano is tuned or not. He is Christian. He’d worked as a bus driver for awhile but had graduated (or retired?) to private tours. On April 6th (the day after our tour) he turned 78. He knows virtually everybody in Skye.

Our tour began with Dennis’s mini-tour of the Aros visitor’s center (he was kind enough to lead us inside, pointing out where to buy trinkets, where to insert a token to watch live video feed of the Sea Eagles’ nests, and where to get food if we came there for a future visit). A number of people asked Alyssa and I if we were with Denis, smiling and laughing when we nodded our answer.

Then the driving began. Denis drove us everywhere on the Western-ish side of Skye. He pointed out his minister’s house, the spots where the fighting over croft-issues took place, various monuments erected for various causes. We chatted as he drove us towards the Black Cuillin (breathtaking hill-mountains). He stopped for a bathroom break and we took pictures of Glamaig, the northernmost of the Red Cuillin that Dennis insisted racers climb and descend in only 50 minutes.

We continued on, driving past farms, down hills and up hills, past various lochs that littered the countryside. We stopped again at The Talisker Distillery which produces a single-malt whiskey. Dennis used the bathroom again as we read diaramas about Bonnie Prince Charlie (After the failure of the Jacobite rebellion of 1745 Flora MacDonald became famous for rescuing Prince Charles Edward Stuart from some mean soldiers. Although she was born on South Uist her story is strongly associated with their escape via Skye and she is buried at Kilmuir), and by the time we wandered outside again Loch Harport was foggy with snow.

He stopped at a friend’s gallery, and Alyssa and I admired watercolors and wood engravings and bought £8 souvenirs before we continued on our way. We passed more hills and farms and houses and sheep. Dennis pointed out the Old Man of Storr across the water. We passed through Struan and Dennis stopped to show us one of the best remaining examples of a 2000 year old Broch. He pulled out an illustrated history book to point out diagrams of Brochs, and read a few passages about this and that. On to Caroy where we passed the ancient and ruinous Church of St. John the Epistle where the body of Flora MacDonald Swire is buried, a girl tragically killed in the Lockerbie plane disaster in 1988. Flora was the daughter of Dr. Jim Swire, apparently a man who did much to improve airport security before 9/11 brought about further alterations. Dennis dropped us off to admire Dunveagan Castle, the seat of Clan MacLeod since the thirteenth century. The castle contains the Fairy Flag, although we didn’t go inside to see it; by the time we reached the castle it had long since closed for tours. We nosed around the grounds, our admiration increased by the snow that began to flurry. It was freezing but beautiful and we lingered until the wind made our noses too cold for comfort, forcing us to hurry back along the pathway to where Dennis and his warm van awaited.

Dennis had been stopping at various places along the way in an attempt at refreshments, but most places we came upon were closed. Finally we found a place that seemed to be open, a small bar outside of Dunveagan. Stepping inside we were confronted with the smell of old house, along with two pianos. Dennis immediately sat at the pianos, testing whether the piano was tuned. Finally satisfied he lead us inside. They weren’t serving tea, so Alyssa and I politely declined drinks. Dennis ordered an orange juice and headed back out to the pianos, so Alyssa and I awkwardly followed… we were the only people in the bar aside from the barkeeper, a random guy, and a random 2-year-old child. The child followed us out to the pianos, and proceeded to do a weird song/dance/bounce on a weird mildew-y couch. Then he started smelling tourist pamphlets and garbling something unintelligible in child-speak. I let a black cat in from the cold and we became good friends before Dennis finished his OJ and we left again, our trip almost over.
Only 5 hours after it had begun.
Dennis stopped at the Fairy Bridge where he told us to cross, make a wish, and keep it to ourselves. Hopefully the fairy will grant mine. We all laughed together as we pulled back into Portree as Dennis asked if we thought he could blow out 78 candles and then proceeded to advise that we probably shouldn’t tell our families back home about Cluck-clucks and Wooly Jumpers. I told him it would probably catch on in America and spread like wild-fire, and eventually everyone would know the legend of the man on Skye from whence it originated. He was laughing soooo hard, and his laugh was so high and cough-y and happy.

We reached our hostel again and Dennis came inside for a moment, towing a gift for me and Alyssa (Scottish ‘piper shortbread’). We let him inside and offered him tea, but he told us he had places to go yet that evening. His gave us hugs and cheek-kisses, and told us he’d really enjoyed our day together. I have a feeling had I not asked him how much we owed, he would have forgotten to charge us for the tour. I guess it was more of a friendly meandering than a real tour anyways, but I’m sure he needs the £££’s for cello lessons.

The random Asian girl who we were sharing a bedroom with was relaxing in the common room and we said our hello’s. Dennis caught sight of her and was immediately curious, asking her where she was from. When she told him she was Chinese, he was soooo excited! He told her to wait while he got some books from his car, and returned to gush about how he was reading about China and trying to learn Chinese. Sure enough he had a Chinese tourbook/history book and a Chinese-English dictionary. He sat down beside the Chinese girl to ask about pronunciation questions, and me and the Chinese girl tried to help him say a few things in Chinese correctly until he was laughing so hard he was practically sobbing. He kept saying it wasn’t a language, and asking how she could understand it all. He asked if she was a student and she told him no, she was a doctor. He immediately brightened up and rolled up his sleeve, showing her his arm and asking if she’d check him out. She shook her head and replied, “No, the reason I can’t examine you is because I am a Breast Doctor.”
Which of course led to more of Dennis’ insane giggling as he asked me to specify what she meant. I’m not entirely sure what a Breast Doctor is, so I didn’t actually give him an answer.

Finally he left for more errands, telling us sadly that the worst part of his job was saying goodbye to all the wonderful people he meets. He really did seem sad.

The rest of the evening was uneventful as we lounged, showered, and finally shared quiche and a bottle of £3.99 wine. The next day we bused home to Glasgow with a Scottishly kind driver. The scenery home-bound was as beautiful as before, only this time lightly dusted in snow. Unfortunately my camera battery had long since died, but that didn’t make it any less beautiful or memorable.