Skye High Pt.1
Last year I took my family to visit Skye. It was my daughter's first holiday (she's one), we stayed in a glamping cabin (a "Wigwam"), we all shared the same room, and it rained. A lot. Regardless of the weather, we saw much, found many exciting places, and went to bed at 7pm on the reg. That was a painful bedtime hour in Skye July. The best light was yet to come, the magical hours were missed, playing out beyond closed curtains. As we left the island after several days, we were ushered out by one of the most fierce storms I've ever had the displeasure of driving through, and yet, as we passed Eilean Donan Castle, the joining waters of Lochs Alsh and Duich flattened out and created a perfect mirror image of the castle.
We couldn't stop. It was July and horrendously busy.
I really enjoyed our days in Skye, but the ratio of missed opportunities to fulfilled ambitions was leaning strongly towards the former.
It wasn't long after our return before I asked my brother if he wanted to take a trip to Skye in 2018. We decided on April 2018, and booked one of the Wigwams again. All that was left now was to wait. This was a wait worse than the night before Christmas between the ages of 5 to 12, and the bastard stretched on for months. You don't know insomnia until you know Skye holiday insomnia. I don't holiday very often, but when I do, I like to spend my time among the awe-inspiring Scottish Highlands.
Of course, April eventually did come. In the three weeks preceding the long-awaited date, I was struck down by flu, eventually resulting in a delightful rash that covered me from my head to my toes on the day my brother and I finally set off. But what the hell. I had equipped 90% well: clothes for all weather, a fantastic new pair of Salomon hiking boots, an array of OS maps, a new compass, a powerbank that held five charges for my phone, my trusty Canon 700D now fashioned with four lenses (18-55mm, 50mm, 75-300mm, 10-18mm), covers for maps and camera, four bags of beef jerky, ten creme eggs, copious amounts of water, and a borrowed pair of Nikon binoculars. My brother arrived with a similar set of gear, and my wee Sandero was packed to its limits (the food was the misjudged 10%).
We planned the journey to run via Glencoe, and soon arrived at Loch Lubnaig. We were forced to stop by the still loch and tranquil scenes that were carrying on outrageously to our right. The weather was fine, a nicely clouded 8°C that held the promise of great weather ahead. We took a few photos and carried on our way.
It was when we became stuck behind a line painting truck around Ben More for ten minutes that the rain began to fall. Just a few drops to begin with, but by the time we reached the Bridge of Orchy, the windscreen wipers were on full pelt and the views were completely hidden. To this day, I've never passed through Glencoe without some form of precipitation, and this point I'm wondering if there is a trick to working out when to visit (hint: it's not Met Office reports). I often see glorious photos of Buachaille Etive Mor, resplendent with blue skies overhead, deer heading in for a feed, waterfalls rushing and crashing through the foreground... We got a rainbow, but even that had the audacity to vanish from view the moment we pulled over to get a better look.
It wasn't looking good. The closer we got to Skye, the harder the rain came down. Eilean Donan was a misty silhouette, and te Skye Bridge was nothing more than a curve within white surroundings. Now, I'll take a walk in a rain. I'll even stay out a long time - my first climb up Ben Ledi took place in rain so torrential that the trickle down the Coffin Road became a raging waterfall - but after waiting so feverishly for this expedition, I just wanted a bit of nice weather. I mean, it's been shit since October 2017 up in Scotland at this point!
We reached Sligachan Old Bridge, and it seems that the weather gods had been prying into our minds and decided to choose benevolence. The unending faucet in the sky was finally switched off, the clouds began to part, and - would you credit it - the bloody sun came out!
When you arrive at Sligachan, you're treated to the best preview of Skye that anyone could wish for. The Old Bridge still stands (it's not that old, ~1820s), and offers up a delightful foreground for the imposing Black and Red Cuillins, as well as arching over River Sligachan. As the break in the weather was somewhat unexpected we spent a fair while in the area in case we were soon to be drenched again. While picking my way along the banks of the river, I managed to find a spot of mobile signal. I called the owner of Wigwams to confirm our arrival, and we made our way to our accommodation posthaste!
By the time we had unloaded the car, the clouds still seemed intent on withholding their juice, so we decided that a trip to The Storr was in order. The Wigwams are situated just outside of Portree, on the north side, and The Storr is a mere ten minute drive away. Even so, we managed to triple that time while taking in the views from Loch Fada...
Even at around 5.30pm on an April afternoon, The Storr was still a busy locale. I sniped the last space in the modest car park, much to the annoyance of an oncoming Qashqai. The clouds overhead were still bulging, but patches of blue were peering out from behind and the promise of a decent sunset on the other side of the Trotternish Ridge soon became apparent.
As we started to walk, I began to feel rather sorry for my poor brother. As a man that lives in Lincolnshire, he is rarely taxed by anything approaching an incline (I mean, who really needs to go to Steep Hill?). The Storr circuit isn't an especially long walk, but it does begin with a sharp upwards hike. Yeah, alright, I took my coat off to combat the sweat, but, my brother honestly looked like he was on death's door. On more than one occasion, I asked him how his left arm was feeling, if his chest was feeling tight, if he could see well enough. I might be something of a hypochondriac, but now I know that it extends far beyond my own well-being.
Fortunately, it wasn't long before The Storr's path levelled out a little, and offered a few options with which to carry on the ascent. The light at this point was a little flat, and the Old Man himself was more or less camouflaged within the ridge behind it (the area has been deforested in recent years, and the Old Man and ridge beyond is essentially visible throughout the entire walk). Once we found ourselves among the worn paths and loose stones on the level with the natural monolith, the tiny specks of people below it began to show up. The stone pinnacle stood out proudly in the evening sky.
The Old Man really is huge. I tried to do it justice with my photographs, but unless you're actually stood below the beast, it really is difficult to get a proper feel for the oppressive sense of scale on offer. The Old Man of Storr is at once mythical and wondrous, mysterious and exciting, humbling and terrifying. The Old Man doesn't care for the ants that crawl about beneath it, for the Old Man has been around long before tourists began visiting it. The Old Man has stood the test of time, watching out over the Sound of Raasay passively, dominating both the eastern skyline of Skye, and towering over the local area while you are below it. The Old Man of Storr is one of the great icons of Skye, and it is easy to see why it is such a favourite location among islanders and island visitors alike. I could spend hours here, just wandering among the rocks, gazing up, wondering what on earth I would do if the monument began to collapse...
On my previous visits to Skye, I was never able to get further than the lower slopes of The Storr. This time, the only thing keeping me to a schedule was nightfall itself. We reached the crest where the slopes begin to descend below the Trotternish Ridge, creating a fanciful bowl filled with boulders, rocks, and shadow. The wind failed to enter this hallowed ground, hidden from view if you don't bother to make the effort to climb into it. An eerie silence descended upon us, and an ominous sign on either side of the Old Man warned that "You are advised not to go beyond this point." This had been helpfully edited by graffiti-loving visitors to read in the positive. A swift glance at your surroundings, and you can see why the signs are placed where they are. None of the rocks at our feet are small, and a glancing blow from one of them to the head would see you join the spirits that first set eyes on the place.
At this point, my brother found his second wind, making fast for the ridge to the north that overlooks the peninsula. The sunlight was starting to break through the top of the ridge in great, golden beams, and "the shot" was pretty much why he was here. I remained within the silent confines of the gully, picking my way between the stones, imagining how Marigold or Wil Havelock would see a similar place in a future novel. Crushingly, I also received an email informing me of the successful delivery back home of the GoPro camera I had ordered for this very trip.
After marvelling at the precarious rock formations, I walked along the well-trodden path to meet my brother at the large outcrop north of The Storr.
The view from up here was stupendous. Golden light lit the shores of Loch Leathan, while The Old man remained shaded and hunched over his domain. From this angle it's a wonder that the rocks remain stood up at all.
Once the sun had slipped between the clouds and below the peak of the ridge, the gloom descended quickly. With it came soft, low cloud that stole the jagged ridge from sight. An already spooky hill became more otherworldly as the mists took over and the light dwindled. At this point, almost all of the visitors to the area had packed up and left, leaving my brother and I as the sole walkers descending the route. The low, local light and the still bright seas of the Sound of Raasay opened up some great silhouette opportunities, 100% engineered for maximum epic photo design.
These are the kind of photos I live for. Fantastical, but contained. A sense of scale, with clear divisions. I wouldn't call myself anything other than an amateur hobbyist, but I was really pleased with the above result!
As is the usual story for such journeys, the descent was swift and easy. Boots were hit clean of clinging mud, and we drove back to the Wigwam under cover of clouded dusk, avoiding road-hogging sheep. Dinner was a quick and scrappy meal of microwave food and coleslaw. Without wives to keep us on the straight and narrow, food choices on this trip were already edging towards the lean side.
With the 5hr drive, ten miles of walking, and cold winds along The Storr combined, both of us were feeling rather tired eyed at this point. My brother reluctantly welcomed in a headache while I drank just one of the fifteen beers I brought with me (what was I thinking? I'm the driver!). We decided on a relatively early night, in preparation for a 5am start at the Quiraing in the morning. This time, the light wasn't going to escape me.
Skye High Pt. 2 is also available on this site...