The Road to Skye Read online

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  In the end, Ian scratched his plan to return to Edinburgh, since he had been there before and he was already at Skye—well, he would be in Skye tomorrow, so he might as well tour the Isle of Skye thoroughly. He decided to spend two days there, going past the Cuillins down to Elgol, overnight in Elgol, and then tour the north of the island and see Dunvegan Castle and its castle gardens. Then he would return back to Kyle of Lochalsh and head back down to Glasgow for his return flight home.

  Ian was astounded.

  “Bloody sheep!” He shouted, and started laughing.

  He was driving in Skye on the single-lane road south to Elgol when the sheep herds crossed over the road, blocking traffic. The sheep seemed unconcerned by his car and chose not to move, even when he honked his horn.

  Ian got out of his car. He actually had to get out of his car to try to get the sheep to get off of the road. Finally, the sheep herd moved, and he was on his way once more.

  The scenery of Skye was gorgeous. Skye was wilder and bleaker than the Highlands had been, and the Cuillins were dark and impressive. Ian stopped to do a hike along the road where it was properly marked and there was also a car park. Ian then stayed the night in Elgol by the water and walked to a restaurant on foot, where he had some really fresh seafood. When he walked home, he stopped by the harbor to notice the fishing boats. It was quite a remote, picturesque place.

  Ian rose early and drove northwest. Today he would reach Dunvegan Castle, and have a tour of the castle and gardens. As it turned out, Dunvegan Castle was situated on a rocky outcropping overlooking Loch Dunvegan. The road passed by more stunning scenery, and of course more sheep, and Ian really looked forward to seeing the castle when he arrived.

  Mid-afternoon, Ian arrived at Dunvegan Castle.

  Driving up to the impressive castle took his breath away. He was immediately glad he had come all this way. Dunvegan Castle was simply extraordinary.

  Ian got out of the car and headed in to take the tour. There were several other tourists there already, mostly Americans.

  Dunvegan Castle had been the seat of the MacCleod for over eight hundred years, Ian learned on the tour. He enjoyed the tour, and signed the guest book. The castle gardens were also extraordinary, with rare species of plants; he had a good, long wander around, enjoying the fine, cool summer weather.

  By that time, Ian wasn’t looking forward to the drive home.

  When he finished the tour, Ian decided to drive back to Portree that night to overnight before heading back to Glasgow, as the drive to Dunvegan, and going through the castle and gardens had taken longer than he had anticipated it would. He ended up driving back the same road he had driven up, but he didn’t reach Portree until well past 11 p.m.

  Ian didn’t feel lonely on the drive. He was happy on his own, though he wouldn’t have minded company, either. He put on the radio and heard broadcasts in Scottish Gaelic, which was also interesting.

  That night in Portree, Ian went out in the bed and breakfast pub and had a hot dinner. He chatted up some of the locals, but honestly couldn’t really understand them well. Their accent was quite strong, and they spoke quickly.

  “Are you coming or going?” a local lass asked him that evening as he was drinking a pint of beer.

  “Going. Back to Glasgow.”

  “You’re quite handsome,” she said.

  He almost choked.

  “I’m Moira. I live in Portree. I see a lot of people coming and going in summer, but it’s quiet here in winter.”

  “Your accent isn’t that strong,” remarked Ian.

  “I went to university for four years in Edinburgh. So I know how to speak with an accent that you’re more likely to understand. There are many accents of Scots, and Scottish people’s accents vary greatly by region to region.”

  “Oh. What brought you here?”

  “I was born in Portree. I have an art studio and store here.”

  “Oh, ok. Pleased to meet you. I’m Ian McCleod.”

  “And you’re from the USA.”

  “Yes. I’ve been touring Scotland for three weeks. I return to the US in two days.”

  “MacCleod you said—did you go to Dunvegan?”

  “I did, and I don’t know why I didn’t know about Dunvegan before I came here—I never really researched my family heritage before. This year I just got the idea to tour Scotland kind of suddenly. Last year I toured Poland. But since my great-grandfather came from Scotland, I thought I might see where he came from.”

  “What part of Scotland was he from?”

  “Near Ft. William,” said Ian. “I made sure I saw Ft. William, and I climbed Ben Nevis. I am just sorry to be leaving Scotland tomorrow. I could spend another month here.”

  “Well, have a good trip home,” said Moira. “Glad you had a nice holiday.”

  But Moira left, deciding against involving herself with him in any other way that evening. Ian wasn’t too disappointed. He finished his beer and returned upstairs to sleep.

  What remained with him after his trip to Scotland was a new sense of the essence of history—Scotland was a country steeped in history and tradition. It was a land veiled in mist and mystery to him, a place where he had gotten a taste of a culture that went back thousands of years, and he had liked this. As Ian took the train back to Glasgow, he decided he would come back to Scotland someday, if he could. He needed to see and experience more.

  Ian rummaged through his bag and got out a book he had bought at Oxfam, a charity book store. “My heart is in the highlands, my heart is not here…” he read part of the poem’s verse.

  The train sped on to Glasgow.