1

The Isle of Mist is hardly the best name for attracting visitors to one of Scotland’s largest Hebridean Islands. However, it was not enough to deter me and last summer I ventured to Skye with a group of friends. I’m a Londoner. For me, anywhere north of Peterborough is unchartered territory, so as for the West Coast of Scotland- well that was a mission! We booked on the magical Caledonian Sleeper Train from Euston to Inverness, from where we would snake through the glens to Kyle of Lochalsh. We settled into our sleeper berths and woke, refreshed, the next morning... in Aberdeen. It seemed that the train had split during the night with the front coaches heading East and the back coaches heading West. We were in the wrong section. Whoops. Still, we arrived in Kyle only 8 hours late, to the mocking faces of the rest of our party who led us over the bridge to Skye.

I had arrived equipped with my wellys, waterproofs, midgie spry and thermals, secretly expecting to spend the next two weeks sitting in the house we had rented or a pub. However the whole holiday was spent outdoors, under crystal clear skies and blazing sun. It was almost tropical! And what’s more, the island was littered with secret coves, which, if you were willing to hike to, revealed unspoiled, secluded beaches with white sands and seals bobbing on the horizon.

We found our way to one such spot, armed with kites, frisbee and picnic and sun-bathed and swam (yes- swam), taking care to avoid the jellyfish. We had the bay almost to ourselves- the only other people were a lady and her elderly father at the other end of the beach. The male members of our party soon noticed that the lady was skinny dipping and were giggling to themselves when the father began to shout for help. I rushed over with a friend to find that the lady- who was now wrapped in her towel- had gone blind. Her father was deaf and couldn’t hear us or his daughter and while my friend ran to get the lady some blankets and a drink I sat talking to her while she collapsed in my arms. We were nowhere near a village and had no phone signal- our cars were a 2 hour walk away and I was just beginning to panic when she slowly began to get her vision back. She was unsteady on her feet but by now the tide was coming in quickly and we had to move. Fortunately my friends had spotted a house half way up a nearby track and the person living there managed to get his car far enough down for us to get the lady and her father to, just before the sea swallowed up the beach.

2

travel w

ritin

g

The travel section is proud to present the intrepid adventures of Groobs Armstrong and

her friends on the Isle of Skye. The Notebook has been assured all events described below are real…

“”

THE ISLE OF MIST

by G. Armstrong

3

TRAVEL WRITING

The following day a big walk had been planned- we were going to bag a Munro. Munros are the largest mountains in Scotland- named after Sir Hugh Munro who first catalogued the peaks. Any Scottish mountain over 3000 feet is classed as a Munro and there are 283 in total. Our par-ty was split- half of the group wanted to do the walk while the other 3- myself included- were a little daunted at the prospect and fancied doing something more leisurely. So it was decided that the Munroers would set off early while our group would do a short walk then head to the pier to get some fresh prawns for dinner. My two non-walking buddies drove the walking party to the start of the walk while I waited in the house- but I shortly got a phone call saying that the walkers had persuaded them to join in the climb. It would take too long for me to catch them up so I decided to stick to the original walk on my own. It was a glorious day and I set out in a t-shirt and sunglasses, ambling along the route we had planned. Some walkers coming in the opposite direction stopped to tell me to watch out for a pair of golden eagles they had spotted a little further along- it wasn’t on the path I had planned to follow but I had a map and plenty of time so I set off on the trail of the eagles. A few miles further along- and still no eagles in sight- a little old lady, who looked remarkably like Granny Goggins of Postman Pat fame, pulled over in her campervan to offer me a lift. I was determined, however to see those elusive birds (for me, the sheep and ‘heilan’ coos’ were exciting so I couldn’t possibly pass up a chance to see an eagle!) so I thanked her and continued on my way. An hour later, still eagle-less, I came across Granny Goggins again- she had got her campervan stuck in a ditch and was standing in the road with her little dog (sporting a matching perm) looking rather distressed. I tried to push her out which only resulted in the campervan getting stuck further and me getting a faceful of mud. Of course, there was no mobile reception, but my map showed that there was a house a mile further up the road so I set off towards it armed with the lady’s Green Flag card. Two and a half miles later I reached a huge mansion where I was greeted at the door by the cook who informed me that the front entrance was for invited guests only and led me around the back. The lord of the manor- or the Laird- came to see what was going on and let me use the phone. While I was patiently trying to explain to the Green Flag representative that the lady couldn’t come to the phone herself because she was 2 miles away in a ditch, there was another knock on the door and Granny Goggins appeared, having stopped a passing car and getting a lift to the house. The Laird insisted that he would sort her out and I was ushered out of the house. By now I had given up hope of spotting the eagles and headed towards home. Half an hour later the blue sky turned grey and within a matter of minutes it began to pour and then to hail. I trudged on, soaked to the skin, for 5 more miles. Finally I heard a car approaching and flagged it down, only to find that it was Granny Goggins, back on the road in her campervan. I clambered in beside her and sat with her dog on my knee while she drove me home. I walked through the door shivering and smelling of wet dog, to find that my friends had abandoned their walk within an hour of starting and had spent the day in the pub while I had walked 25 miles. Their only comment was, “where are our prawns?”

They got their comeuppance later in the week, however, as driving to a whiskey distillery to the north of the island we decided to stretch our legs. I was still pulling on my wellys while they ran out over the heather and sank, with an almighty squelch, up to their thighs in a deep peaty bog. I’m surprised they let us into the distillery but they did- and my friends walked round with mud trickling down their legs, leaving a slimy trail behind them.

We did manage to bag our first Munro by the end of the holiday and it was truly spectacular waving our flags from the peak, with sprawling views in all directions, while regular Munro-baggers looked on in amusement. We are now determined to return and bag the lot... hopefully with no further misadventures. Skye 2011- here we come.

4

TRAVEL WRITING