Memories of Skye

The Isle of Skye is one of the most remote areas of Scotland, with the Hebrides archipelago around the corner. The countryside is charming and some places even have coffee.

As soon as I leave the ferry coming from Mallaig, its like stepping through a magic portal into another realm. Suddenly the world turns feral and ancient. Mountains that look like the broken knuckles of old gods rise out of the earth. The air is damp with secrets. The sheep outnumber humans by an absurd margin, and they know it. I’m just a guest here, and the land makes that abundantly clear.

Sheeps and a windy road. Welcome to Skye.

I drive the rental across the island, the road barely clinging to the landscape, curling along cliff edges and through desolate moors. It feels like the road might give out at any second, like Skye itself didn’t much care if I stay or simply vanish into the peat.

The Old Man of Storr looms in the distance, a jagged rock formation standing defiantly against the howling wind like some druidic sentinel. I climb up through the mud and fog, calves burning, knowing full well there’s no warm pub waiting at the top. Just stone, sky and the feeling that I’ve wandered into a Celtic fever dream. At least I brought some breakfast.

Misty breakfast view below Old Man of Storr.

Everywhere I look, the island tells stories. Not the kind one would find in guidebooks or documentaries narrated in soft English tones. These are stories carved in basalt and whispered in Gaelic.

The island is home to the Talisker distillery as well as the imposing basalt pillars at Staffin on the east coast. But I came here looking for something else. Something different. I don’t know more than that, but I’m sure I will find out.