Asaig Quiet Camp, Breakish, Isle of Skye

25 August 2017:- Given the weather forecasted for yesterday was to be an improvement on today, we set off very early, heading first to find a restaurant whose advertising brochure we had picked up in Morvich. It was my birthday and we intended to shout ourselves dinner out; any excuse not to cook! We parked up outside the unimpressive little hoos and debated our choice. Donning raincoats we peered through the front windows and saw a light on in the back; it was, after all, still very early in the day. Returning to the car, we were still humming and ha-ing when a woman appeared at the back door with a rubbish bin, looking at us with great suspicion. A decision was quickly made, for better or worse; Chris accompanied her into the bowels of the kitchen and booked a table for the evening. He had obviously not been put off by the state of the restaurant machinery.

Further north we called into the Co-op fuel station, topping the tank with a token amount and discovering the price of fuel here not as inflated as you might expect. That done, we headed north on up the A87, a continuation of the mainland road that ends up at Uig here on Skye. The road hugged the coast, the Cuillin Hills rising on our left into the rain mist, visible enough to suggest majesty, but for now only offering mystery, on around Loch Ainot where we parked at the far western end so I could walk back to photograph the waterfall, one of many we were to see today. Not only was the rain falling from the skies, but it was pouring from out of the hills, and seeping through the roadside banks. Water, water, everywhere! Needless to say Chris refrained from venturing out into the rain this time and many later on, considering my obsession for taking photos absurd given the inclement weather.

“Sunshine and showers” is the mantra recited so often by the television weather girl and so appropriate for yesterday. We pressed on until we reached the seaside township of Portree. Here we parked in the square where the parking machine was wrapped up in waterproofing as we were. I imagine it is still waiting for adjustment to cope with the new £1 coins.

Portree, with a population of about 2,500, is as close to a metropolis as Skye has, and is well worth a wander about. Its deep cliff edged port filled with fishing and excursion boats and circled with pastel multi-coloured houses is quite charming. The wharf only dates back to the early 19^th century, which suggested to me it was another of those established by the fishing authorities as a response to the Clearances, however I saw nothing to confirm this, and the following actually suggests a life well before those turbulent times. It is said that the town’s name came from an anglicisation of the Gaelic Port Righ, the King’s Port, marking the occasion of a visit of an early tourist to the area, King James I.

Even mid-morning in the rain, the town was busy with the babble of foreigners, as they shopped in the Co-op, sought information in the Visitor’s Centre and checked out the souvenir shops. We left with bakery treats and a handful of maps and brochures, heading on further north, still on the coastal road, now the A855. By now the traffic was dense  by Scottish standards and we streamed up into the isolated Trotternish Peninsula to see all the famous must-see attractions. 

This peninsula, protruding only twenty miles north of Portree, has some of the island’s most bizarre scenery, with volcanic basalt having pressed down on softer sandstone and limestone, causing massive landslides, which in turn have created sheer cliffs, peppered with outcrops of wizened basalt.  The first and most celebrated of these curiosities is the Old Man of Storr which is all that is left after one of these slips. There is a visitor car park from where one can walk for half an hour or so to examine the Old Man more closely.  Here too was the first evidence of all we had read in the newspapers about the problems of tourists in Skye; too many with too few facilities. Those facilities required are larger car park areas, metalling of existing parks to stop people from resorting into the bog peripheries and public toilets. Here below the cliffs of Storr, the car parks were over full and the roadside lined in an unsafe manner; we pressed on having to be satisfied with a photo taken out of the car window. 

We were luckier at the next place, the Falls of Lealt, however this is a little of a misnomer. One can glimpse the top of the falls and imagine how stunning they must be as they fall down to sea level, but the official track and lookout points are more about views down to the shore where there were once  stone buildings, and views across to the mainland. I was fascinated to spot a couple of sheep grazing down on the side of the very steep drop-off, as nimble as goats; “nimble” is not normally a word one associates with sheep.

Alas the car park for the next, the Kilt Waterfall, was overflowing and we gave that a miss too so I cannot tell you anything about those except they are visited by many who do manage to find somewhere to park their car. We had to be satisfied with the views of the cliffs above the village of Staffin.  Most of the houses on the Isle of Skye, and in fact, on the north west of Scotland, are whitewashed and look so very picturesque in their wild settings. This we enjoyed time and time again, all the way along our route taken yesterday, the days before and that today, especially when the rain ceased and a little piece of the sky opened to let a ray of sunshine through.

Just north of Staffin, a narrow single-track road turns inland and cuts due west across the peninsula, into the Quiraing, apparently a spectacular area of rock pinnacles, sheer cliffs and more strange rock formations. We debated whether to take this short-cut, albeit a slower route, or to continue on around the coast; the coastal route won and we had no regrets. 

At the top of the peninsular we came around to the western coastline of Loch Snizort, the road a one way with passing lanes as it had been after leaving Staffin, sharing it with a sultry sauntering herd of cattle, the cows heavily pregnant, the calves quite independent and the bull no more savage than a gentle Labrador. They were heading in the one direction, not at all interested in grazing the side of the road and without herdsman or cattle dog; I guess they knew where they were going. Sheep were also present beside the road, rarely on it, and so very laid back, not at all like their far-off cousins in New Zealand who are more likely to run ahead for miles before heading off into the paddocks or onto the roadside verge. Perhaps that comes of the countryside being so bog ridden, and random hurried movement can be quite hazardous, and as to the question, why is it so very boggy in this part of the country? It comes of the soil being so shallow on the old hard base of the rock, that the water has nowhere to go. 

We had decided that we would not visit the Faerie Glen, the must-do for all tourists to Skye; we had read the horror stories of hazardous parking and traffic in the newspaper and did not want to add to the woes of the locals on this issue. This is reported as a Hobbity landscape of miniature hills, and is near the little settlement of Uig, but we saw no signs. We wondered if the locals had taken matters into their own hands and removed them all? 

Further south and around the bottom of the Loch, we turned north west again onto the A850, now entering the Waternish Peninsula. We stopped up above Edinbane to have our lunch, after which I decided I needed to relieve myself. We had seen no public toilets since leaving Portree, so the heather clad moor would have to suffice. I ended up to my knees in the bog and came back to the car in rather a sorry state, albeit feeling more comfortable in another. I was glad I was wearing my tramping boots!

We drove on north to Stein looking out over the Loch Bay, now on a more minor road, and found it to be everything the guide book promised; Waternish’s prettiest village, one of few, a row of whitewashed cottages built in 1787 by the British Fisheries Society. The place never really took off as was intended, and was more or less abandoned within a couple of generations. There is a pub and restaurant here, but the patrons were well tucked up inside, as Chris was in the car. I walked up and down the little street in the rain to take a few snaps, surprised to see a few cabbage trees along the sea frontage; maybe an immigrant Kiwi planted them to remind themselves of home?

Retracing our route, we came down to Dunvegan, location of a castle of the same name. Descriptions in the guide books suggest something very like that at Eilean Donan which we visited some days ago. Chris was not keen to call in and add to the coffers of the greedy so-called charitable trusts; there were enough others there who did not share his sentiments. But we did continue on up the peninsula beyond the castle, for some miles and on our return stopped in the continuing rain to attempt a photo of the castle situated out on its rocky outcrop. It looked very ethereal although my camera was not able to wholly capture that.

We continued on south across the Duirinish Peninsula and on down the shore of Loch Bracadale, now on the A863, then eastward across the “waist” of the island, to the north of the Cuillin Hills, emerging at Sligachan at the end of a loch, or inlet to we foreigners. Here is a large and picturesque hotel, and a couple of stone bridges over the raging river, probably the River Sligachan, although my map does not give that detail.

Here I coerced my husband to don his rainwear and emerge from the shelter of the car. We checked out the signage, and pleasingly recognised the tops of the Hills now visible as they had not been earlier in the day. The Cuillins are considered Britain’s most dramatic mountain range, attracting geologists, tourists and climbers from around the world. My map indicates that the peaks visible to us range from 773 metres to 1009 metres ASL, and they were impressive, but it was the whole scene in front of us, the quaintness of the bridges, the raging river and the sight of a freshly wed couple having their souvenir photos taken that entranced me. They were accompanied only by two older women, who might have been their mothers, the female photographer who shouted her instructions from one bridge to the other and her assistant carrying a drone which was engaged at one point for those extra special photos. But the most memorable sight was the state of the bride’s wedding frock, which had managed to suck up all the muddy water of her settings like blotting paper and her equally clunky muddy boots. We suggested she might need to have her dress dry-cleaned and wished them forever happiness; I was glad she had a fur-lined jacket to put back on after posing here and there in the wet conditions.

Here we joined the road travelled north in the morning, but now with better visibility we enjoyed views of Raasay, the large narrow island which lies between Skye and the mainland, and closer to home, Scalpay.

Despite having travelled 160 miles, we were back before 4 pm with plenty of time to prepare for our evening’s outing. Washed, combed and clad in our glad-rags, we headed out for an excellent dinner at Creelers, where I enjoyed my seafood dinner and Chris was able to indulge in a great hunk of steak. Confessing to celebrating my birthday, my ice-cream sundae was converted to a masterpiece with two lit candles, one poked into a liqueur soaked apricot and the other a similarly drunken prune.

During the night, when I was more sleepless than usual because of having too late a coffee, and the itching of my midgy bites, I heard heavy rain all too often. The morning brought the same and we wondered at the wisdom of bothering with the rest of the Isle. Just as my husband had not been inclined to visit Dunvegan Castle, nor was he bothered with Armadale Castle, which is apparently even more of a ruin, but he was not averse to checking out the Sleat Peninsula (pronounced Slate) so we headed south west across the lochan dotted moorland between Broadford and Isleornsay. From here on a clear day, there are views of the relatively nearby Knoydart area, one of those “doughballs sticking to the edge of the mainland”, the way I had simplistically described the geogrophy of Scotland. Alas this morning, it was mist, mist, and rain and only the view of the coastline immediately below us.

We continued on along the shore, soon reaching Armadale where we drove down onto the ferry wharf and asked about the cost of taking the car and caravan across to the mainland, offering an alternative route to Fort William, tomorrow’s destination. The ferry from here to Maillaig, north of Fort William, apparently costs about £20, which initially suggested it might be a cheaper option, however we sat with the map and worked out our mileages, and while the distance would be quite a bit less, the fuel cost saving would not justify the ferry crossing for us. 

The weather had not improved one bit, there was little point in lingering although we did continue on toward Aird of Sleat until we found an easy turning spot. We returned to Broadford on the same road, and called at the Co-op to fill the tank in readiness for tomorrow and shopped in the adjacent Co-op grocery outlet.

It was only late morning that we gave up on our sightseeing tours of the day, and settled in for a sedentary day. I guess it doesn’t matter if this happens from time to time.