Skye Idyll

Tuesday began grey in Glasgow as we prepared to leave on our short trip. It was the tenth of November so the dreich weather was hardly a surprise. What was, was the clear sky on the northern horizon where we were headed because relatives had invited us to pay them a visit at their home in Skye. They live in a cottage near Dunvegan, in the northwest corner of the largest island in the Scottish Hebrides, and my wife and I were going to catch a bus.

The first leg of our journey was the least prepossessing, the journey from our home in Cambuslang, about eight miles to the southeast of Glasgow city centre, which was would take about forty minutes by service bus into Buchanan Street bus station where we had booked passage onboard a Citylink coach to Portree. There we rendezvoused with Deborah’s mother and waited for the ten o’clock coach to arrive. The journey would take about seven hours, not because Skye is so terribly distant but because scheduled buses are so awfully slow. In fact, the two hundred miles or so is a comfortable four hour drive by car, but since losing my job six months earlier, a car was a luxury we could no longer afford.

Glasgow is Scotland’s largest city. Once a bustling industrial metropolis and the Second City of the Empire, it’s population today is just over half what it was a century ago; about 600,000. However, most of those who left didn’t move far beyond the city boundary and the Greater Glasgow conurbation is still well over a million.

Over 800-years old, Glasgow straddles either side of the River Clyde, Glasgow along what is called the Central Industrial Belt, with the picturesque and hilly uplands stretching southwards to the Border with England, and the Highlands beginning only a few miles to the north. Indeed, the bonny, bonny banks of Loch Lomond, thus renowned in song, lie only some 20 miles north of Glasgow city centre, beginning at Balloch; about an hour‘s journey by bus.

But even that first hour is pleasant enough as the bus wends its way through the heavy city traffic along Great Western Road, a boulevard of sandstone terraces, trees and grand houses, which takes the traveller out towards Clydebank and Old Kilpatrick on their way to Loch Lomond.

Loch Lomond is about 28-miles long, wider at its southern end and narrow in the north. Geologically, it is actually three clefts flooded together into one large loch, the largest body of water by surface area on mainland Britain, although Loch Ness boasts the greatest volume, with more water than all the mainland’s other lochs and lakes put together..

Travelling north means travelling along Loch Lomond’s west bank, as the eastern shore road is a cul de sac. Much improved and widened in recent years, rapid progress can be made for the first twenty miles to the village of Tarbet, along the smooth tarmac carriageway, but from there the drive becomes altogether more tortuous for the next ten miles or so, along the narrow road winding through forest between the rising rocks on one side and the loch shore on the other. You can’t lay tar on a loch, and dynamiting the surrounding granite would mean closing this main Highland artery for months.

Loch Lomond and its environs is a place of stunning beauty, like so much of the Scottish Highlands compactly picturesque, with a new and captivating vista around every bend. There are water sports and sailing for those so inclined, and hiking routes for those who want to commune with nature, so it is hardly surprising that many visitors camp by her banks and venture no further. In the summer the loch is a bustle of tourists and travellers but by November the larger crowds have dissipated, which is a pity in some ways because the Highlands in late autumn and winter merely display a different grandeur. Indeed, as the lushness of summer recedes, the barer branches and twigs afford a better view of the landscape, hidden by the forestation in full leaf.

It takes about an hour to leave Loch Lomond behind, shortly before the road north forks at Crianlarich. A left turn takes you on your way to Tyndrum and another fork for Oban. However, there we fork right and head for Glen Coe.

Crianlarich is little more than a hamlet with a railway station and a hotel, and for those travelling further afield is merely another point en route, but like Loch Lomond can be provide a hub for those who wish to explore the hidden riches of the area.

Tyndrum is another railway stop with the usual hotel and enormous gift shop, strategically placed at a three-way junction. Almost Alpine in character, it may soon see an increase in industry after an alleged 4½-ton seam of gold was found nearby by an Australian mining company. ‘There’s gold in them thar hills’ - there always has been.

Climbing out of Tyndrum, the landscape begins to widen as we approach the bleakness that is Rannoch Moor, the largest unspoiled wilderness left in Western Europe, the end of which takes into the more claustrophobic confines of Glen Coe: Well, maybe not claustrophobic so much as brooding. Maybe its more psychology than topography that Glen Coe seems to possess a melancholy beauty. Maybe it’s the tragic story of the massacre when on the 13^th of February 1692, 38 men, women and children of Clan MacDonald were infamously hunted down and murdered by a contingent of government soldiers of the Clan Campbell, whom they had taken in and shown kindness and hospitality.

To this day it is remembered as one of the blackest stains on Scotland’s bloody history, and at the time created such scandal as to threaten the British Crown itself. However, society’s horror in 1692 was not that which we, with our modern sensibilities, might suppose today. That women and children were hunted down and hacked to death in the snow was unremarkable by the standards of the time, indeed such brutality par for the course in those more fiery days. What horrified respectable society was the shameful disregard for the code of Highland hospitality. You could cut your neighbour’s throat, you could rape your neighbour’s wife and daughter, but once you had broken bread together there was covenant between you. Hospitality was sacrosanct and the Campbells had shamed that covenant.

All along the way from Tyndrum to Glen Coe we passed by lochans (little lochs) on either side, their windless surfaces smooth like the glass of an upturned paperweight, reflecting the azure hue of a cloudless pacific sky. The day had brightened nicely, as forecast, as we followed the winding road as we snaked our way from glen to glen and loch to loch en route to Fort William, at the head of Loch Linnhe. As the name suggests, Fort William was originally built as a garrison in the time of Oliver Cromwell and later named after William of Orange, whose function was to house the government troops needed to pacify the Highlands and quell its Jacobite inhabitants. Its other claim to fame is that it sits near the foot of Ben Nevis, Britain’s highest mountain. At 4,406 feet, its hardly an Alp, but as I said before, the charm of the Scottish Highlands is in the compactness of its vistas.

That being said, Ben Nevis’s claim to fame is simply its height. You can actually walk up it, and it’s far from the most beautiful mountain in the Highlands, but it is situated amidst great beauty, the Great Glen, a geological fault scar running diagonally across the Highlands from Fort William in the south to Inverness in the north. When say it is a geological fault line I kid you not: Scotland does have earthquakes, albeit small ones, and it makes the national news if a cup and saucer are shaken from a sideboard by such a tremor.

Fort William is a also where the coach changes drivers and passengers can break for lunch, as we stop for nearly an hour.

From Fort William the road undulates across the hills and along the coastal contours of loch, river and inlet on our final stretch of the mainland leg of our journey, to Kyle of Lochash, the terminus of the West Highland railway line from Glasgow, and once the nearest mainland point to the Isle of Skye where travellers would cross by ferry.

Now it is simply a comfort stop at the foot of the Skye Bridge, connecting the island to the mainland. Again, there is much to see locally, and Kyle of Lochalsh is a good hub from which to see it, but our journey‘s end lay yet ahead

The largest and arguably the most romantic island among Scotland’s Western Isles, the Hebrides, Skye has in many ways become Scotland’s theme park, with many English and southern incomers whom many Highlanders still refer to as ‘White Settlers‘.

There’s no railway on Skye and few roads, and the island‘s geography is surprisingly varied, from the southern ‘Garden of Skye‘, as Sleat (pronounced ‘Slate‘) is known, to the Cuillins (pronounced ‘Coolins‘) mountain range in the centre, to the more rugged north. My maternal grandparents were from Skye and said that when you couldn’t see the Cuillins you knew it was raining, and when you could see the Cuillins you knew it was about to rain. But the day we arrived, apart from a shower at Kyle of Lochalsh, it was dry. Indeed, it was beautiful, the blue sky having followed us north for most of the way.

Once across the Skye Bridge we were off the mainland and on the final leg of our bus journey to Portree, about 35 miles to the north. Indeed, there are only two large towns on Skye, Broadford towards the south, and Portree towards the north, and both on the more sheltered eastern side.

Of these Portree is the larger, and considered the social and cultural hub of the island. Not a great distance from the Bridge, but an hour’s busride nevertheless.

It was approaching 5pm as the street lights of Portree began to loom into view and quarter past five when we finally alighted in the town square, leaving those remaining passengers destined for the terminus a few miles further north at Uig. At Portree we were met by our hostess Elaine and transferred our luggage into her car for the 23-mile drive to Dunvegan where she and Deborah’s brother Stephen live and where we settled in for the night.

One of the reasons that Skye has so few roads is because until only a couple of centuries ago, most travel from village to village was by boat, and Dunvegan is rather remote. It’s pronounced to rhyme ‘Megan’, with the stress on the second syllable, and possibly means ‘Fort by the Brook’, for reasons I shall explain shortly.

Dunvegan itself is a tiny village with a couple of stores and small hotels, the island’s oldest bakery, a gun and tackle shop for the huntin’, shootin’ ‘n fishin’ fraternity and a small harbour at the foot of the loch. But it’s main claim to fame is not the village itself but its proximity to Dunvegan Castle, the family seat of Sir Hugh Magnus MacLeod of MacLeod, the 30^th Chief of that clan. Born in London, the title ‘Sir’ is hereditary because it is not that of a knight but a baronet, and goes back to 1616 when Sir Donald MacLeod became 1^st Baronet of Sleat on the death of his uncle Donald, Chief of the Clan MacDonald of Sleat, the island’s southern extremity.

It is not at all unusual for Scottish Clan Chiefs to be have been born in England, since the Statutes of Iona of 1609 was passed by the Scots Parliament, requiring Highland chiefs to send their sons south to be educated in the English language and the Protestant religion. As a result many Clan chiefs were educated at Eton and speak with a decidedly un-Highland cut glass Home Counties accent. This is something I noticed myself as a young police constable at the Scottish Police College, Tulliallan, in 1979 when my Passing Out Parade was inspected by my own Clan Chief, the late Brigadier General, Sir Gregor MacGregor of MacGregor, whose accent would have passed muster at Henley Regatta.

Although I have never met Sir Hugh I am told he is personable and well liked locally on Skye, and travels frequently between Dunvegan and his home in London, where he has a career in his own right in the film industry. And in case you wondered, the locals refer to him respectfully as The Chief.

Stephen works on the estate, while both he and Elaine live nearby as his tenants in a beautiful farm cottage called Totachocaire (‘Cook’s Ruin‘). With no near neighbours or street lighting, the November nights are pitch dark and tranquil. Not a sound disturbs the calm, not a flicker of light pollutes the night sky, and our first night there was crisp and clear and starlit.

As well as Stephen and Elaine, our hosts’ household included Meg, Zak and Jake, three of the nuttiest greyhounds in existence. Hugely entertaining, unfortunately their affection was exceeded only by their flatulence. But then, ourselves the owners of a greyhound called Roy, this regrettable capacity of the breed came as no surprise.

On Wednesday we woke to a beautiful day, as the November sun rose slowly in the cloudless blue sky overlooking MacLeod’s Tables:

Healabhal Mhòr (pronounced Helaval Vore) to the north, and Healabhal Bheag (pronounced Helaval Veck) to the south - two flat topped hills on the adjacent Duirinish peninsula. Healabhal Mhòr simply means ‘Big Flagstone Hill', while Healabhal Bheag is ‘Little Flagstone Hill', which may seem confusing inasmuch as Healabhal Mhòr is 1,538 feet high, while Healabhal Bheag is 1,602 feet tall, but the adjectives refer to their relative bulk and not their height

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Dunvegan Castle is the oldest continually occupied stronghold in the British Isles, dating back to the 13^th century. Many theories exist about its name, but amidst its beautiful grounds runs a large burn with several waterfalls which flows into the loch. For this reason I think Dunvegan means ‘Fort by the Brook’, despite the fact that beag (pronounced beck) bheag (pronounced veck) is Gaelic for ‘small’. This is because many Highland names are not pure Gaelic at all but incorporate Norse elements as a result of the frequent Viking incursion and settlement of centuries ago, and there is a Norse name Began whose etymology is somewhat obscure but which sufficiently resembles the Old Norse bekkr (meaning brook or beck) to be a serious contender in this case in view of the castle’s geographical juxtaposition. It would also excuse the apparent tautology of Dunvegan Castle, which would be consistent with the probability that today’s castle, whose oldest portion only dates back to the early 1200s, is actually built on the site of a much older stronghold.

This feature of Highland names is widespread and even MacLeod is a hybrid that means ‘Son of the Ugly One’. And if you ever yourself in this neck of the woods, for goodness sake don’t ever refer to Gaelic as Gay-lick. Only foreigners call it that. Properly spelt Gàidhlic in Gaelic, it is correctly pronounced Gah-leeck (rather like Garlic without the ‘r’). In fact, if you really want to impress, it’s called An Gàidhlic, or The Gaelic. And, as you may already have gathered, Gaelic spelling and pronunciation are quite distinct from English, with ‘bh’ and ‘mh’ usually pronounced as ‘v’, while dh is a silent, almost strangulated guttural, approximating to ‘ng’.

The castle grounds are beautiful and the castle itself well worth a visit, although both are closed to the public from late autumn and during the winter months except by special appointment, which is a pity because the falls of the water garden in autumnal spate are a sight to behold.

We spent the next couple of days resting and walking, and apart from a few sheep and a small herd of cattle Dunvegan and Totachocaire were quiet, although I did detect a faint whiff from the direction of the forest which my ex-cop’s nose seemed to recognise as the smell of fermenting grain, which usually preceded its distillation into whisky. I didn’t investigate further and would draw a discrete veil over the whole affair.

Thursday’s weather was a complete contrast with that of the day before. Wet and windy it had reverted to type for a November Isle of Skye and we come well prepared. That night we headed for Portree (Port Rìgh, in Gaelic, which means Port of the King, probably after James V) on a engagement that was the reason we had come to Skye in the first place; the opening night of a play at the Aros Centre theatre, featuring the Skye Players, a Scottish Community Drama amateur theatre company, whose members hail from all over Skye and who would be presenting their production of Noël Coward’s 1941 play, ‘Blithe Spirit’. The original cast included such worthies as Dame Margaret Rutherford as Madame Arcati and Cecil Parker as Charles Condomine, the part played by Rex Harrison in the 1945 film version. On this occasion the cast comprised the following local actors (in order of appearance):

Edith (a maid) ... … … Lorna Masson

Ruth Condomine … … …Sally Phelps

Charles Condomine … …Iain MacDonald

Dr George Bradman … David Hammond

Violet Bradman … … … Maggie Willoughby

Madame Arcati … … … Elaine Bunce

Elvira Condomine … … Pauline Nicolson

For those who have not seen the play or the film before, the story is a comedy of manners revolving around the widower Charles Condomine whose late wife Elvira is conjured up during a séance by an eccentric medium of dubious ability, Madame Arcati, which part Noë l Coward apparently wrote with the wonderfully weird Margaret Rutherford already in mind.

Still in her mid-teens, Miss Masson was by far the youngest member of the cast and acquitted herself admirably in her minor but crucial role, and I suspect we may be destined to hear more about her in years to come.

Iain MacDonald made a fine job of the central role of Charles Condomine, albeit with a somewhat Hebridean lilt in place of a Home Counties accent. For this reason Mr Hammond’s plumier tones might have been cast in the part, but what Mr MacDonald’s dialect lacked in geographical accuracy, he made up for with enthusiasm.

Doctor Bradman’s part was played skilfully and professionally with Mr Hammond acting away nicely even when his character was not the focus of audience attention. Sally Phelps, as Charles wife Ruth, was well cast with just the right accent and played her part convincingly.

Maggie Willoughby, as Doctor Bradman’s wife, made the most of the slender part that Coward had written but was surprisingly absent from the curtain call, thereby missing her well-deserved applause.

Pauline Nicolson was a suitably sensuous Elvira, the ghost of Charles’s late wife, in which regard her makeup made her an extremely convincing spirit. She acted her heart out and did such a good job that one could almost overlook the fact that as someone who had ostensibly died seven years previously in an era when wives were typically several years younger than their husbands, she was possibly a little too old for the part. Nevertheless, she was sexy indeed.

As for Madame Arcati, what can I say? Elaine Bunce, our Dunvegan hostess if I might declare an interest, gave a totally over the top performance. Normally, such a evaluation would be the critical kiss of death for any actor, but in Coward’s cleverly constructed comedy such an appraisal amounts to an accolade, because over the top is exactly how I imagine the author envisaged the part being played when he cast Margaret Rutherford in the rôle and I suspect, had she been there, Dame Margaret would have heartily approved.

All in all, it was a most enjoyable production by a highly talented troop, and well worth the four hundred mile round trip to see it. On the return trip to Dunvegan afterwards the rain was virtually horizontal, but having bee thoroughly entertained, we arrived back tired but happy.

On Friday we rose early for our lift to Portree where we boarded the Citylink bus and began our seven hour journey back to Glasgow. The weather was a bit dank as we left Portree but degenerated into horizontal hail as we travelled through the Cuillins, with every burn and cataract gushing forth with plumes of peat-stained mountain water. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the weather cleared again as we reached Kyleakin, on the Skye-side of the bridge back to the mainland. Behind us dark and rain-laden clouds emptied their sodden load over northern Skye, while to the south, blue skies peaked through white cloud over Sleat.

Seven hours later we were back in Glasgow and forty-five minutes after that, back home in Cambuslang, already missing Skye.