Scotland - Day 6
An early rise. We had to get up, eat, and get out of the hotel in time to make a two hour drive to a remote point on the southern end of the island. Our destination was a tiny, two-horse and a 1000 sheep, town named Elgol. I had scheduled our special event for a 10:15am departure.
Distances on Skye are not overwhelming. In fact, the island is a short 50 miles long from north to south. Which means, you can get anywhere on the island within a couple hours. This does not, however, take into consideration the fact, with the exception of the main road on the island, all of the secondary roads are ridiculously narrow one-lane paths with passing places.
We followed the A87 south to the bustling tourist center of Broadford and turned right onto the B8083. Two lanes almost immediately narrowed to one lane. This two lane to one lane transformation was always something of a shock. I couldn't help feeling as though I was doing something illegal, as if I was driving down a path in Piedmont Park. These thoughts would last a few moments and then I would start having more fun than I could have dreamed. A small car is absolute necessity when driving on roads so narrow at times, a VW Golf seems large. You simply cannot drive too fast. These roads twist and turn and whip around bends past lakes, streams, and rock outcroppings.. Watch out for the numerous sheep asses sauntering down the center of the road directly in front of you. Most of the roads are raised, due to a construction method that filled in impassable terrain by piling up a dirt berm, flattening the top, and laying down a thin layer of asphalt on the crest. This meant that if you made a mistake you would end up in a ditch your little car would not be able to get out of. Fourteen miles south at the end of this marvelous road, lay Elgol. Off in the distance the Black Cuillins disappeared into the clouds and somewhere ahead of us lay Loch Scavaig and Cuillin Sound.
We arrived in Elgol at 9:45am. The town vanished over a precipice and fell into the water hundreds of feet below where a concrete boat pier jutted out into Loch Scavaig. The sky was overcast but not wet and the wind was blowing steadily but not harshly. I navigated the ridiculously steep hillside, crossed a narrow bridge past a one-room schoolhouse resting on the beach overlooking the stunning loch, and parked our car in a space next to the pier. We couldn't help noticing our boat was not waiting. I was excited and quickly packed our bags, put on a warmer layer, and shuffled over to the boat shack. On the door was a posted sign that made my heart sink. "Not Sailing Today". I was crushed. The Bella Jane is considered one of the best tourist excursions in the entire country and weather had deprived us of this adventure. Apparently, the Bella Jane operators didn't want to deal with green-faced tourists horking up their breakfasts on semi-rough seas. We wouldn't be visiting Loch Coruisk and the seal colony on this trip.
With a sigh and a few dozen curses, Tracey and I took a walk/stumble along the rocky beach. I peed into the wind. Within the hour we were driving back to Broadford where we would turn south again toward our next destination, The Khylerea Otter Sanctuary.
Before the bridge connecting the island to the mainland was built, Khylerea was the original entry point on Skye. This tiny town of a half dozen buildings and its ferry landing is located a dozen miles off the A87 down a steep ravine and is accessed by a treacherously fun one lane road. We made it to the Sanctuary parking area by noon. Still no rain. The sanctuary is a national refuge for sea and bird life in the area. It is nothing more than a sign denoting it's existence and a wonderful shack overlooking the coastal preserve a mile down a dirt trail. We found another couple with tons of telescopic gear huddled inside. Signs warned visitors to exercise extreme quiet, despite the shack's distant location about a hundred yards away up the hillside.. Otters have incredible hearing. Tracey and I both commented on the surprise that the viewing posts in the shack all had powerful binoculars tethered to the desktop with thin wire. I love Europe. People are generally honest. You will never find this kind of trust in America - the binoculars would have been stolen the day they were installed.
We watched patiently for about thirty minutes. It was a beautiful spot and with the exception of one playful seal, devoid of wildlife. No otters.
We hiked back to the car. I was even more dejected. My "wildlife day out" had been a miserable bust.
On our way back to the hotel, I decided to make one last stop. It was getting late and the weather was turning sour, but I wanted to find a place called the Faerie Glen. This place cannot be found on any average tourist map. I learned of it whilst doing my trip research and made a point of copying down the location information and directions. We arrived in Uig around 4pm and found the turnoff just before the Uig Inn. Another one lane farm road that wound up over a bluff and back into a wide valley. We passed farm houses and sheep pens eventually coming to a cattle gate. The road rounded a downhill corner and all of the sudden we were in Dr. Seus's playground. There in front of us lay the oddest most unusual landscape one could imagine. Strange conical hills with strange circular ridges, weird rock formations, and ponds in gullies. The color of green was as deep and vibrant as a Van Gogh painting and a light mist was falling. White butts of sheep were everywhere. We drove into the Faerie Glen with wide smiles.
We ended our day with a stop in Uig, a harbor town on the Trotternish Peninsula, to visit Uig Pottery and the Isle of Skye Brewery gift shop (the brewery did not offer tours - bummer).
Our hostess at The Lodge, Hazel, told us about the Faerie Glen after we had mentioned we had just come from there. She said that the locals like to tell the story of how the glen was formed.. The ridges on the hills were created from Haggis Races. Due to Haggis's having legs shorter on one side of their body than on the other, they ran on uneven ground to stay level. The ridges were formed from them running around the hillocks chasing a big sausage.
Actually, as I surmised, the ridges were formed from centuries of grazing sheep circling the hills to reach the last bit of grass at the tops. Nonetheless, it is a funny story when told with a local enthusiasm.
We dined in the Lodge restaurant and enjoyed a drink next to a warm fire in the lounge, then carted our exhaustion off to another early slumber.
