The Blackwater and on to Loch Ness.

My oh-so-bad! The Old Man of Storr was on the Isle of Skye in the Inner Hebrides. Gosh, I remember now - we stopped in Portree on a rainy day to do all of our shopping. I somehow lost time, but then we weren’t sleeping all that well - I think we grabbed an early ferry to the Isle of Skye.

Skye has a magical, bloody, tragic history. It was there that Flora McDonald hid Bonnie Prince Charlie. It was to Skye a few survivors of Culloden fled. Now Skye is a lovely, peaceful place. Gaelic is still the main language. The seat of Clan Donald is still on Skye. We’d come to hike the Black Cuillins and the Red Cuillins. Och, I so wanted to hike the Cuillins! But alas it was not to be, but then that is a story for another day.

We arrived late to our lodging, The Stein Inn, the oldest inn on Skye. It was founded in the 18th Century. Yes, it had continued to rain all day and yes, we were tired. Our wonderful hosts made certain we each had a shot of their best whiskey before showing us to our rooms. It was then that the Scots had their wee joke, or revenge if you will - We and the MacKenzies were provided with suites. Humungous, enormous, could hold an entire football team luxurious suites. The MacKenzie’s suite even had a jacuzzi. Wowza.

The English, all six plus feet of them, were shown into broom closets. I’m not kidding. We ran into them on the way to dinner and found their doors propped open so they could squeeze around the bed. Only one of them could stand upright, the geologist. And the bathrooms were miniature. Better not drop the soap! Graham, oh poor dear Graham, was assigned an unheated room in the attic. Awwwww. We all felt so bad for him that we argued on the way to dinner about who was going to get stuck with him for the evening meal. We compromised. It was agreed we’d take him for supper this one night if the English would take him all next day. As it happened, we were so blatantly cold to him he left our table anyway. You know how it is, not quite as fun to be on the receiving end.

The next day was flat out freezing. Everyone opted out of a hike except my husband and myself. We decided to head off on a trail recommended by the proprietors of the inn. We found some colorful mushrooms in the woods, most of them poisonous, I assume, and an ancient cemetery - Scotland is one of those places where you are very likely to stumble across an ancient cemetery.

The next day, our last day, we headed to the Cuillins, but Graham had no enthusiasm for a climb. Can you imagine? We stopped at the trail head. The English physician and I crossed the river and headed up the trail a little ways while everyone else discussed an alternative. When we returned a half hour later, it had been decided that we would instead hike the Blackwater River. It was a good idea. The Cuillins are not for the faint of heart, so the Blackwater River was a great way to end the hike for everyone.

From there it was over the bridge to the mainland and Inverness, back to the train station where we began. Graham practically threw the luggage off the roof of the van in his hurry to be gone. There we said goodbye to our English companions and hello to Graeme and Fiona, Evergreen, and the incomparable beauty that is the quiet side of Loch Ness.

An addendum: For those of you wondering if we Yanks managed to make Graham as utterly uncomfortable as he made us…wait for it… He was truly a bloody fucking asshole.

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