The Flags of Ferry and Fairy

The Standing Stones really blew my mind and made the trip to world's-edge-adjacent worthwhile -- but in general I enjoyed our jaunt around Harris/Lewis with Les. Earlier in the day, before the stones, he told us all about this plan to make a giant quarry on the side of a mountain in Harris -- so big you could've seen it from space -- that the local people have been fighting against. The rock is called anathracite. Something that apparently works very well in making a road. Of course, Les said, to the big French multinational that wanted to do this, Harris is just some rocky nothing, best for exploiting. But it is a beautiful place, and should not be scarred for life. Les said the explosions they would've made while excavating the rock would've been heard SIX MILES away! I couldn't imagine such disruption in such a peaceful place. All the wildlife and fish would've been disturbed, perhaps forever changed. So far they have successfully defeated the plan. I hope they continue to prevail. Les had us each take a tiny sample of this rock. There is plenty of it for such things, and for local needs. But blasting a galactic-sized hole in the mountain is entirely something else.

While on the road we saw herons, and some seals hanging around on the lichen-coated rocks. Les isn't from Harris, but he is clearly a devotee of its traditions. He learned Gaelic (I always thought it was "Gaylick," but he says "Gallick"), and his kids have Gaelic names. (His 10-year-old daughter, Rhiannon -- love that name! -- and her mom rode with us a short way on the trip back.) He even cuts the peat to burn in winter, an old practice that some islanders still do.

On the way back from the Stones, we saw another collosal landmark, Whalebone Arch:



After the tour, Les dropped us off at a pub about a mile from our B&B du soir, called Avalon (the B&B, not the pub). We had a quick bite in the lounge. I had awesome split pea and ham soup with a savory cheese scone. Deb had fish & chips. I also had a glass of whisky, the regular Jura (not the 10-year-old). Les had said the walk back to the B&B wasn't long; it seemed like a mile, and Fussy was a bit put out. Granted, we were trudging in a fine drizzle, and the sidewalk and the lights both ended before we got to Avalon, but WTF. I kind of enjoyed it. It was very dark. It reminded me a little of being a kid and walking on the country roads in the winter.

Back at Avalon, we had a cozy two-bed room with a private bath -- that was down the hall! I couldn't figure out how to make the shower work, so I took a bath, which was actually nice and thawing. Then we watched a movie on the BBC about a train crash in Ladbroke Grove, called Derailed. Mick used to live in Ladbroke Grove, long ago. Anyway, the movie was a rather muddled quasi-true-life thing involving corporate (denial of) responsibility and the shattered lives of survivors and such, but the most interesting thing was that they interrupted the film to show the news for a half hour, then returned for the last 30 minutes of the flick. Weird.

We had to get up at 6 to catch the 7 a.m. ferry off of Harris, so we crashed around 11:30. The alarm beeped insistently at 6:02, and we struggled into consciousness, threw our stuff together, got the taxi outside and outta there. The B&B host had made up a nice breakfast on a tray in our room, but it was way too early for food. This, I have noticed, is sort of a downside of B&Bs for me. I did take the packaged cereal bar, however.

On the ferry we went straight up to the observation deck. For this time we were pals, after all. It was a cool hang, with couches and little tables and good views of the land and sea all around. Hardly anyone was up there, although when we disembarked on Skye, tons of people got off. I guess they'd rather watch TV?

I myself put on the iPod and kinda wheeled through the songs. Some of the more pastoral/pop XTC tunes were pretty great for just standing at the front window, bobbing on the waves. I took out Deb's binoculars and looked at a lighthouse at the tip of the land. The sky was grey and crappy, but I felt pretty happy in my sonic cocoon. Deb brought me some coffee and a roll. She napped a while, and I just drifted with the music and the water. From the bow a flag of Scotland fluttered in the wind. I gazed at the rocky, grassy cliffs as they receded from view. When we were farther out there I saw a seabird flying low, skimming the waves. Another came along and joined it. I wondered if they were friends. And I kept dancing my private dance with the water and sky.

Dungeons and Gardens

Anyway, we got back to Skye around 9:30 this morning. Found the faithful Vauxhall, still full of our junk, in the pier parking lot where we left it. Loaded it up with our overnight bags and drove off toward Dunvegan. It was raining, of course, really pissing down when we pulled into the castle's parking lot. A whole crowd of geezers was thronged around the ticket booth nevertheless -- at this midweek juncture, we are often surrounded by old folks at tourist attractions. I guess that's not surprising, really. Who else would be gamboling about the historical ruins in the middle of the week? Dunvegan is sort of out there on its own, isolated-like, and it is bigger than it looks. Here is a view of the front/entrance:



By the time we got where to buy our tickets sorted out, I was sort of not feeling it. Was kinda cranky or tired or ragging -- all of the above, really. Annoyed by the rain and sort of bored of castles -- after only two! -- and I suppose ancient buildings in general. The Clan MacLeod owns/runs this joint -- some still live in the upstairs rooms above the tourist part. I couldn't help speculating what the actual living quarters were like: all mod cons, a la so many places in Edinburgh? Did they have Internet high-speed and cable TV, central heat and maybe a jacuzzi tub? I would. Anyway, what this place mainly had of interest to me was the Fairy Flag, a tattered and faded bit of yellow silk said to be protective in a magical stylee. I found it quite incongruous that this mystical relic was framed and hung on the wall next to the piano in the display version of the living room. Should it not be in some vaunted place of power, a ley-circuit niche of its very own?

Oh, well. When I entered the castle I put in my earphones -- the Dandy Warhols' spiritual trilogy of "Godless," "Mohammed," and "Nietzsche" -- and tripped around. Gazed at swords in glass cases and giant portraits of long-dead Great Scots. I liked the library with its glass-enclosed shelves of moldering, fancy leather-bound books, and a desk placed at a window with a spectacular view of some loch or other (whatever). I missed the Fairy Flag the first time through b/c I was zoning out, and also there was a big crowd of the elderly around it, so I just wandered on by. The nice old lady docent in clan tartan let me go back up and see it, although she and her coworker seemed quite amused by my obliviousness. Heh.

The flag was cool, but my favorite part of Dunvegan was the dungeon. Just off the living room, actually off a short foyer b/w the living room and the drawing room (or something), there was a door, and behind it a narrow row of rough steps went up into a small chamber in which the stone bones of the castle were exposed. All around this place were rooms of elegance and refinement, with fancy furniture and bright colors, rich velvets and luxurious ornate fabrics on chairs and couches, finely carved and painted wood, huge pretty windows with lush views. But here was this raw, embedded reminder of the brutality of those days, the brutality that in part secured all the luxury that obscured it, however superficially. But really it's just human business as usual, the gut of the beast. Lairds, clans, presidents, parties -- blah blah. It is ever thus. Anyway, below the small chamber was an even smaller pit where two prisoners could be shackled, sitting up with their backs against rough stone, legs out straight or maybe bent if they proved too tall. (The pit contained two faux prisoners to demonstrate the point, along with tons of coins and other things dropped accidentally/on purpose by tourists, like sunglasses.) You could peer in through a grate. It was a long way down. Deb later told me they were playing a recording of "prisoners" coughing and generally sounding miserable, but I was in my own Dandy world and didn't hear that. Still, I was fascinated by the chamber and walked around as much of it as I could, feeling the walls and looking up at the high ceiling. I am sure the pensioners thought me somewhat batty. Before, in the living room, I had seen, deliberately set slightly ajar, a door opening out of the fancy wall and a set of stone steps behind it; later I learned that this was a service passageway from the kitchens, conveniently located so that the prisoners, slowly starving/thirsting to death, could smell the food being carried up to the diners. Humans, man. They can be most inventively cruel.

As I think I said, it was raining like hell, and I had seen now all I cared to see inside the castle. Deb was still poking around, so I told her I would meet her at the cafe by the parking lot. She said, "Don't you want to see the gardens? They're beautiful." I shivered and carped, "But it's raining." "So?" she replied. Hmmmm. Right. Of course I had my raincoat on (rock on, packable fleece-lined Lands End gear!), so I grabbed my umbrella and headed down the path (yay for waterproof hiking boots).

I was rewarded with a totally empty and peaceful world of greenery and hidden, twittering birds (no headphones needed when there's no people...)



Some spectacular waterfalls...



An incredibly sweet smell coming from a lone deep pink flower that had to be an orchid. A meandering woodland path to the Walled Garden -- please close the gate to keep the rabbits out -- also deserted and magically beautiful. Laid out with a sundial in the middle and paths radiating in each direction, to different parts that revealed themselves slowly with every footpace. I was passing a hedge and suddenly smelled that same sweet flower -- a few more steps and I could then see the cluster of pink just on the other side of the pale green hedge. At one end of the garden was a green painted door that did not open. I walked all the way around the place and almost got out without seeing anyone ... just as I finished my little tour, a guy showed up, followed by his female companion.

I left the Walled Garden and wandered into the Round Garden, laid out rather like the spokes of a wheel and also very pretty and soothing:



By then I was ready for some tea, so I ambled back up to the castle path, past an open, big shed where a worker was doing something. I said hello, and he said hi back. I also passed the fern greenhouse but didn't go inside.

The cafe was busy, but I got some tea and wrote a little. Presently it was time to go to the Three Chimneys for lunch, so I went back to the car and phoned Pokey. She was on her way. I punched the auto search on the car radio and watched the numbers reel by, capturing nothing at all, until finally it came to BBC Gael, which was actually in English at that moment.

Off we drove to the restaurant, and I had my first personal driving experience with single-lane roads and passing points. It was soon sussed out, thanks in no small part to the navigator.

Three Chimneys is a lovely little restaurant, cozy but strangely posh, with stone walls exposed inside. We had wine and the two-course lunch. Intended to do three (that is, w/dessert), but got too full. I had two different slices of homemade bread -- parmesan and sunflower/fennel -- plus an appetizer of house-cured salmon with a mustard/dill vinaigrette and deep red pureed beetroot. Mmmm. For the main course, venison, roasted with mashed potatoes w/green onions (scallions?) and "bashed neeps," i.e., mashed turnips. Which I learned I don't like much.

After lunch we flew out of the sticks and back to the main road and to Sconser, to catch the 4:15 ferry to Raasay. Roger was waiting, after all. We were first in the auto line for the little ferry that took us 15 minutes from Skye to Raasay. It was raining. I was feeling very cooked by this point -- we'd been stressing the timing a little, plus I'd done a lot of driving by that time. But on the other side of the water was Roger's smiling face and red Ford wagon, which we followed to his and Caroline's home nearby. He showed us around, including the new roof they had to put on when the old one blew off in the hurricane they had in January. (Man. What did that sound like?) There were crates of old slate shingles along the road outside -- their former roof.



He invited us to sit for a while in their comfy living room before going to the hotel, where I currently sit writing this, but I was getting antsy b/c had been wearing the same clothes for days and felt very unsettled. We are staying two nights here, so I really wanted to get into our own space and spread out a little. Roger obliged and led us up to the hotel, the Raasay Hotel. He promised to come collect us at 6. I am happy to get the chance to freshen up and change clothes before dinner.