Walking Bernisdale and Skeabost

One of my local (and regular) walks, along the western shore of Loch Snizort Beag, is filled with hellos to my critter acquaintances, updates on what the wind has taken down, and the varied small, but consequential enchantments a stroll necessarily has to offer--like the signs on homemade boxes and containers that entice coins out of your pocket for fresh eggs. Yes, I have many chickie friends on this walk.

The charming bookstore of Gaelic, Highland and rare books, Buth Leabhraichean (lea-brai-chean sounding so close to 'library', yes?), is a surprise along the little lane toward River Snizort.

No matter that we get hail and powders of snow and ice-bear winds--it still tends to look tropical in certain sheltered spots, like this pond at Skeabost Country House Hotel. I'm wrapped up to my nose but it remains green and I'm noticing the bright yellow flowers of gorse already blooming forth. 







The impressive white 'hotel' was built in the mid-1800s as the hunting lodge of Lachlan MacDonald, proprietor of the townships of Skeabost and Bernisdale.

During the crofter Clearances, the emigration point for the area was on this jetty by the hotel. Such a dreary state of affairs, which deserves a blog post of its own.

 This quaint stone structure was built on the Snizort River, by the MacDonald family. It sits near the mouth of the river and is known as the Old Turbine House, where electricity was produced for the big house until 1954.

A company named Three Esses has taken over here, with the intent of recreating the hydro scheme, which will provide funds to keep their hatchery going. Wild salmon eggs are incubated in tanks here at the ghillie's cottage. I must admit that I have always thought the dry, circular, recessed 'tanks' were old sewage processing tanks! The 
lades, which run above the river, originally provided water for the turbine, but now also supply river water to the eggs.

Lades draw the water to the hatchery and turbine.

The Tube, a black scary- looking piece of plumbing which required a 100-ton crane for installation, can be heard emitting almost subterranean grunting and churning slurps--I am minded of Kumbhakharna, the sleeping monster of the Ramayana, and I pray to the gods to let him snooze, while I take this photo. 

The 'Beast' has a 35kW Archimedes screw, which the guys make much about, as it's supposed to turn at around 30 revs per minute. The 40:1 gearbox steps the gennie (generator for  non-geeks) up to 
over 1200 rpm. The screw is filled with a rubber trim, so that none of the fish--even the smallest fry--gets hurt, in case they "want to take a white-knuckle ride up or down the tube". (More info on this turbine at end of post.)

The River Snizort is the most celebrated spate river on Skye. The Three Esses Ltd. operates the fishing for nearly its entire eight miles. They say the river has Wild Brown Trout, Sea Trout and Salmon and they help anglers practice catch and release techniques. I would be interested in what local readers think of this project--comments welcome.

The pool in front of the turbine is named  'Coire nan Ceann', the Cauldron of the Heads. After the 1539 battle over ownership of Trotternish peninsula, which begins on the other side of the river, the victorious MacDonalds tossed the corpses of the MacLeods into the river by the bridge, and they collected in this pool.

Looking across the river, I see the ruins of the old 'Nicolson' chapel on the pretty green grass of St. Columba's Isle.

St. Columba's Isle: "The little ruined island of silence and the dead..." (A. Smith)

Skeabost Gatehouse is available for fishermen.

I head out past the Skeabost House Hotel's gatehouse and stone posts... 

...and pause for a shot of the Old Poste House, known to you as the scary Halloweeny House in the Glen (its much earlier name). It doesn't look too frightening in the daylight, but it is in a nasty state of condition and its owners, Penny and Iain, are slowly renovating the historical building. The path I am following from my cottage is the old drovers' road and this 1702 house was the inn on the bridge that served travelers passing by on horses, in wagons and on foot.

Now I cross historical Skeabost Bridge, trip lightly along the water to cross a little footbridge, and voila! I am on St. Columba's Isle (Eilean Coluim Chille). In the Dark Ages of 536 CE, it is said Columba left his home in Ireland to settle with the Gaels of Dal Riata on the Isle of Iona, which was granted to him for a monastery. St. Columba (Collum Cille) was presumed to have been a prince of high status and he appeared to have influence with kings, as he served as a diplomat. His reputation grew after his death and legend tells us he used one of the large stones here as a pulpit. 

Effigy in the small chapel ruins now called Nicolson's Aisle.

We are told that this small isle in the River Snizort held the first Christian church on Skye. It is associated with the Bishops of the Isles from 1079. By 1134, Skeabost had the status of a cathedral. There are ruins of at least two buildings: one small chapel dedicated to the saint, used as the Nicolson clan chief burial aisle and a larger, 79' x 26' cathedral with transept...though it is hard to decipher much of the cathedral now, as the stones are covered in moss and trees and bushes grow everywhere. Over a hundred years ago, it was thought that there were five or six chapels here. The little isle is lumpy with rocks, walls, partial gravestones, the land all rolling and tumbling. One time I encountered a herd of cattle here and they didn't seem to mind my presence, what with the lovely green grass munchies. I finally found a three-foot section of fence that had been lowered by bovine paws--their deep churning effect is still visible and adds to the difficulty of walking around the graveyard.

Some monuments have managed to remain upright in a tipsy fashion. Twenty-eight chiefs of Clan Nicolson are said to have been buried in the wee chapel, but it is hard to imagine, without referring to Alexander Smith's description: 
'I never saw a churchyard so mounded and so evidently overcrowded. Here laird, tacksman and cotter elbow each other in death.' In his bewitching book, Summer in Skye, the nineteenth-century Scottish poet says, "One could  not help thinking what a picturesque sight a Highland funeral would be, creeping across the moors with wailing pipe-music, fording the river, and his bearers making room for the dead man amongst the older dead as best they could....an eerie place by moonlight. The broken chapel, the carved slabs lying sideways, as if the dead man beneath had grown restless and turned himself, and the headstones jutting out of the mounded soil at every variety of angle, would appal [sic] in the ink of shadow and the silver of moonbeam..."

There are a lot of different types of Blackface sheep on Skye, with varied horn shapes and body color. I won't insult any shepherds by pretending to know more than that, though I was told that the marks they put on the sheep are precise, as they have various meaning. I just saw a program where they put a marking halter on the male, and when he mounted, a particular color rubbed onto the ewe. The Scottish Blackface is known to be grumpy and shy, but though her peers ran away, she? posed amenably before retreating. Most of the sheep I encounter are quite friendly. 


Lachlan MacDonald was the landlord for the Free Church of Scotland in Skeabost and the Free Church Manse in the trees. This is the spot to watch bird antics at ebb tide. Here the River Tora runs into Loch Snizort Beag, and ducks continue to float around the boggy turf, while the free flyers play tag, knock the boater off the head, and skim-surf.

Above is a (out-of-focus!) guy who insists on being outside of the fence--I fear for his life on the fast road on the other side of the drovers' path, but he loves to play dodge and continues to surprise me two cottages down, just when I pick up speed in my car.

Back near home, joyful cluckings abound in the rare sunshine. 




My cluckings are just as happy, 'cause it's teatime for me! 

Floreat!





*The Archimedes screw (again for non-geeks)is credited to the third-century BC Greek polymath, Archimedes of Syracuse, but the concept of a turning screw pulling water gradually up a tube was known at least by Syrians three-hundred-and-fifty years earlier. 
The screw used for 'The Beast' is using falling water rather than pulling it up.

Hydro power is water power, where falling water has potential energy due to gravity (witness flash-floods). In some hydro schemes, fish can become disoriented due to turbine turbulence, thus causing concentration in fish passes--thus creating an increase in predation by other animals and people. The Archimedes hydro screw turbine is designed to not impact the effectiveness of the adjacent fish pass. New England Hydropower's Roger Hutton says the Archimedes power generator 'tends to wash the fish rather than impact them'. Search Fishtek Consulting for the risk assessment of impact on fish. For info on the turbine at Skeabost, search www.skyesalmon.co.uk.

EEK, IT'S A MOUSE!

In reminiscing about my American New Year's Eve last year, I remember the little friend who kept me company on that frigid night. Yes, I had a bat...er...mouse...in my Idaho belfry. A mouse, I say, because I had seen only one at a time. They didn't scurry around in mobs, like roaches, and a mouse didn't mind taking a dive for a kabibble right under my nose in broad daylight--although I think that was an error in judgment on his part. His bud said, 'Mistake, buh-ig mistake, Harold.'

Now, when I mention kabibbles, one might misunderstand and think I was untidy. Judging by the general maligning they get, not to mention downright horror-accompanied-by-creeping-of-the-flesh at the mere mention of the diminutive tykes, it would not bode well for me to admit that, no, I was not untidy, I just felt sorry for the starving little buggers and only picked out the tastiest dainties (nuts, birdseed, healthy cat-crunchies, and homemade, whole-grain bread crumbs) for them and left them on a pretty dish under an antique buffet at night, so they'd feel safe darting to and fro. No, I won't admit to  it.

I felt lucky that they contained their foraging to my kitchen floor. Not one had ventured to my bedroom, but woe for me if I happened to drop a sticky crumble of my midnight snack on my nightie--I might have felt little twitchy-whiskers in my bed. Hmm, though maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

Speaking of rodents, I've been gathering up little newsy items like a mousie storing seeds...but Skye folk are pretty cagey about how they're going to celebrate the New Year, unlike Edinburgh, which blasts its party life intentions via every internet possibility on the planet. I have a serious feeling that if anyone on this misty isle is going to make merry tonight, they have a good idea where they'll be even if they aren't telling me. I see that Shooglenifty will be at Dornie Hall; the Skye Gathering Hall in Portree will be dancing with Ros T and Munroso; and keep yours ears open for any local ceilidhs in your neighborhood. Party vicariously all evening with BBC Alba or liven up your sitting room with Cuillin fm 102.7 at 10 pm. 

Ho hum, yes, I'm heading over for tea at Skeabost Hotel, in just a few---wheeee, party on girl! It gets crazier later on--chocolate, Laphroaig and a good book. If I down enough whisky, maybe Mr. Twitchy W will materialize in my dreams!

If you go out, take care and if you are drinking, call a friend for a ride.

Happy Hogmanay to all critters, great and small, on this wet winter's night. I wish you shelter, a kiss for the new year, and may all Skye nibblers have enough kabibbles to fill their tummies and warm their hearts.

Christmas on Skye

Me trying to be artsy with my GE cam--well, I love it
anyway, for always being true blue.

Christmas Eve, I sat in my little white croft house on Loch Snizort Beag, listening to 'Carols from Kings', my wee fire adding ambiance if not much warmth to my sitting room; candles twinkled from mantel and windows, amid boughs collected as a prize in the storm beneath an unfortunate diminutive tree which no longer had its top half. I had thanked and assured the forlorn pine that it would embellish my home for the holidays and through gusts of stinging rain, I carried the branches clutched to my breast, in protective glee, home to my cozy cottage.

Boot Sale Madness!

December has been a month of exhilarating walks over boggy, trickling moors--distance obtained by jumping to and from patches of heather, all tinted golden with a brave winter sun battling pewter clouds and blown by southwest gales.

Last week found the towering Somerled Square Christmas tree on its side, where it still lies like a spirit dashed but not broken. Portree calendars were filled with fun. The Skye Reading Room held a book launch at Skeabost Country Hotel, for Liz Macrae Shaw's debut novel, 'Love and Music Will Endure'. This is the story of Mairi Mhor nan Oran, Skeabost songwriter and activist. Caroling voices filled Somerled Square and St. Columba's Church, and a very appealing Boot Sale at the Community Center satisfied last-minute shopping quests.

Urgh...uh...

Friday night jitters weren't alleviated by the MacBrayne ferry mishap, two hours of free-floating between Raasay and Sconser. No rocks were hit, no dashing upon the coast, just umpteen frantic mobile phone calls to home and hearth. After seven hours of nerve-jangling delay, travelers were on their way. 'The staff were amazing--they went out of their way to help,' said one passenger.

Pretty Dawn at coffee after
caroling, while I devour
mincemeat tarts.

Later, the owner of the Fat Panda laughed and said, 'Oh--the fish man phoned to say he was "on the boat" and couldn't pick up his food. He has an alibi--he wasn't lying!'

According to another passenger, Mac made it a 'storm thing'...was that the same storm that blew in and toppled the Christmas tree, hours later? Hmmm. People were not happy with that but were relieved to be safely home.

Pauline lets the fish man off the hook--no Ron is not the
fish man, just a passenger home again.

I have had a wonderful Christmas day with my fuzzy companions and now that the gourmet chocolates have digested, I am ready to prepare dinner. My Christmas day walk was dry and slightly windy, which made me feel blessed that we on Skye have escaped the outrageous storms that have blasted England and Scotland. We even had some pretty cloud and sun-setting action--I never saw the sun but saw its effects on the horizon--actually realized that the sun is still setting in the west--I thought it had been setting in the south for the past month! Happy day!

Christmas Gift For Readers: A loverly remembrance of my Idaho winters by my ole'
pal and finer photog than me by far, David Bagnard.

Somerled Square: Portree's 'Park'

Whatever were they thinking? One might suppose (as I did) that a pretty central park was replaced by a car park and bus stops but it ain't so. Well, when Scottish King James V cruised into the harbour in 1540 to exercise his royal prerogative over the unruly and great unwashed, it's true that the future 'Somerled Square' served as a campground for the king's troops. It appears that was the last lovely grassy park on this spot above the harbour. From the earliest photographs, we see that the only concept of 'park' in dusty, muddy, busy Somerled Square involved your bum, rig, gig, bus, car or sheep, from the time buildings began to gather about the area.

Photo credit: Highland Archive Service (Skye and Lochalsh)

This was prime real estate in Kiltaraglen, which got a name change sometime after the king's visit. Some say Port an Righ, for king's harbour, and some anti-Royalists say Port Ruighe, for 'slope harbour'. Nevertheless, the village has been the Heart of the Island for hundreds of years, pronounced as Portree. 

If you walk onto Somerled Square today and raise your eyes above the concrete and vehicles, what magic you encounter. Look at these lovely stars, which beg for a camera and lights.

Portree Parish Church,
with latticed gothic lights and cottage porch.

Window in Parish Church

The original Free Church turned 
Parish Church, has been used as a 
warehouse and is now on the 
market.

The Parish Church, which is described as 'cottagey gothic', was originally built as a Free Church in 1850-54, designed by John Hay, of Liverpool. Louisa MacDonald had it raised in memory of her father, Sir Archibald MacDonald Baronet. Its predecessor was the large 1820 church on the corner of Bank Street and The Green.

Masonic Lodge St. Kilda 881, built 1912, by R.J. MacBeth.
"The painted, balustraded parapet gives the whinstone
frontage a quirky charm." (Mary Miers)

 

Construction of Masonic Temple in 1912.

The first Portree St. Kilda's Lodge was formed in 1784, but ceased operation around 1848. In 1898, the Master Masons received permission to resuscitate the Lodge.

The Free Presbyterian Church is topped by an endearing octagon timber fleche and sports gothic hood moulds. This beauty was designed in 1895, by John MacKenzie. I snapped this photo again a week later, for the winter effect and love it but left you with the side view of autumn (below). This gives the reader a perspective on the amazing visual changes on Skye.

Side view of the Free Presbyterian
Church, which sits on the curve heading
up Home Farm Road.

Eye-catching north transept between St. Columba's 
Church (Scottish Episcopalian) and it's rectory.

Look across Home Farm Road and you'll see the pretty Church of St. Columba. The rectangular hall with gothic lancets was designed for the Scottish Episcopalian Church by Alexander Ross, in 1884, and the foundation stone was laid by Bishop Chinnery Holdane. The big southwest porch was the base for a saddleback tower that was demolished in 1953. Inside is a gorgeous window depicting Esther delivering her countrymen by E. Ingram, which was dedicated to Flora MacDonald. The linked 1891 rectory is available for lodging rental.

MacKenzie's Bakery and the Granary Restaurant do business in Hawthorn Cottage. 

Comely 1889 Hawthorn Cottage was first owned by Angus Campbell.

Neil Beaton returned from the WWI front line and founded a motor hire business on Portree pier. He purchased Hawthorn Cottage, where he lived with his wife, Catherine.

The cottage's story continues with McKinnon's Bakery, which was in the big, clotted-cream yellow, three-storey house next to the Masonic Lodge, possibly first owned by Rhu Arden. Roderick McKinnon lived here and ran his bakery business. Descendant, Harry McKinnon, continued the bakery and was later joined here by Alisdair Kemp McKenzie.

When Harry McKinnon died in 1959, Alisdair McKenzie took over the bakery and moved it to Hawthorn Cottage. Alisdair died in Portree on 3 May, 1991. The family still own the building and the bakery continues to bear the name of McKenzie.The old McKinnon Bakery building is now owned by Dr. and Dr. Laughland, who visit regularly.

Portree Courthouse

Clydesdale Bank

Inverness architects James Matthews and William Lawrie contributed a trio of styles to Somerled Square.

From 1865,  you'll find the simple pedimented classical villa-styled Courthouse, playfully embellished with traditional urns on the parapet.


Clydesdale Bank was built in 1866, as the North of Scotland Bank. It has a friendly, home-like appearance in Georgian Survival, with heavily pedimented ground floor windows.

Below, the 1873 Caledonian Bank is now the Bank of Scotland. This is the most impressive of the Matthews-Lawrie Portree productions--a show-off, with gables and hood moulds in gothic. It is easier to appreciate this craftsmanship over others which are painted (such as the three-storey McKinnon). Look closely at the work under the paint on these structures and you will see the elegance that was.

Bank of Scotland.

A tour of Somerled Square buildings would be in order, for aficionados of these old buildings. Here is the interior of the building once owned by the Isles family, now known as the Isles Inn. The pub is renown for good local music.




The building has the Skye whitewashed look, with small third floor dormer windows that cry out for a good book, a candle and a cozy blanket.

Isles Inn

The police station has more charm than some in the United States, but we expect more in Portree. There was a quaint stone jail on the corner here but it has been demolished. 
The cranberry doors and window frames rosy-cheek the bureacratic attitude. Perhaps if the entry provided tea and if the doors leading off to nether regions had some ornamental cottage detail...and the stairs were wooden..and...well, the man dutifully helping out the probing American citizen was friendly enough. At least she didn't get arrested for espionage.

Another autumn/winter effect. Take your pick for when you visit Somerled Square and the substantial Portree Hotel: an Alexander Ross, 1875 design. In William MacKenzie's 1930 book, Old Skye Tales, he recounts a 'hazy recollection of the Portree Hotel  as a blackened ruin from which the present hotel emerged'. MacKenzie was involved in a stand against oppressive landlordism in 1880 but by the time he wrote his book, it was fifty years later...I've found no reference to this fire...help me if you can!


The 1922 War Memorial sits in the center of the Square. It remembers both Great Wars and the lives lost from Portree and Snizort.

The monument is a small version of the Edinburgh mercat cross, which is topped with a seated lion. In 1580, King James the Sixth granted market privileges to Portree.


So there we have Somerled Square. When we are dodging buses, cars and tourists and when we are hurrying to find a parking space and get our shopping done or grab some munchies before catching our ride, it is easy to overlook the beauty that embellishes this busy section of the village. This winter, when time slows in the cold and you happen to be in Portree for something, why not take a deep breath and pause to appreciate the bonny jewels that have been here right under your nose for so long~ 

Who Was Somerled?

(Notes from an article in the Scotsman, 26/04/2005):

Somerled Square was named after Somerled, who was always known as an Ulster-Scots warrior. He was victorious against the Norse 'Vikings' and assumed the title of King of the Isles in 1158. This was considered to have been the start of the Gaelic Kingdom of the Isles, which was to last four hundred years--the same as the Norse reign over the Hebrides.

Though Somerled has always been considered Celtic, an Oxford professor of human genetics, Brian Sykes, has discovered that Somerled's Y-chromosome was of Norse origin--from around one-hundred years before his birth. 

Considering that eighty-seven generations (of MacDonalds, MacDougalls and MacAllisters) later, clan chiefs still have the same basic Y-chromosome, Professor Sykes says it shows that the high-status women in the clans were 'extremely faithful'. However, the large number of people today, with the same Y-chromosome, means the men in the family did not share the virtue to the same extent...

~ ~ ~

Acknowledgements for this post:
*The Western Seaboard: An Illustrated Architectural Guide, by Mary Miers.
*The Highland Archive Service (Skye and Lochalsh): Anne MacLeod, archivist and Alison Beaton, archivist assistant.
*The Portree Local History Society.
*RCAHMS, Canmore.
*Am Baile
*The Scotsman News
*Norman MacDonald, Portree

Goblins on Skye!

The heavens did open up and pour but I slipped on a skirt, dabbed on a bit of make-up--not too much I was thinking, the Skye folk who invited me for cider and bonfire may be somewhat earthy and did I want to look like an American floozy on first meeting?--and through the deluge I drove the two miles to the 1702 House on the Glen, next to the ancient Skeabost Bridge. I usually walk the old drovers path to this spot and have wanted to see the house, not knowing I had already been trading e-mails with the owner of the mysterious dwelling. There was also mention of a pig's head, which made me a bit nervous, vegetarian and all...

I saw no bonfire and was somewhat dismayed because I was assured this would happen even in the sod and soggy night and it was my landmark. It appeared I had reached the right abode when a young monk clad in brown habit opened the door and seemed to recognize me, calling me "Foofy", referring to my e-mail address. I was brought a cup of highly boozy Steaming Bishop (say that five times), amidst the raucous flurry of two teenaged Blues Brothers and a couple of masked and hairy ghosts. The atmosphere was enveloped by a bellowing Tim Curry humping out his declaration, "...cuz I'm a uh! trans-vestite-from Transylva-a-nnnyaa-a-a-a!" Oh dear, why didn't she tell me it's a belated All Hallow's Eve party? was all I could think momentarily. On second thought, Guy Fawkes rambled through my mind--dismissed, with no evidence of an effigy. Bonfire Night--of course!--with overtures of Hallow E'en for tardy revelers.

After what seemed like several trainloads of enchanted teen girls gliding down the bedeviled staircase, and a friendly encounter with a beguiling older monk resembling the younger, and a longer exchange on the sofa with an Englishman as ignorant as I was on the party theme, the wild black and oranged hostess tumbled down the stairs into the decadent candle-lit room and recognized me for what I was--the only American in the room, looking like a wet blanket in normal duds and ironically too little make-up for this crowd--what was I thinking!

I was chatted up by a Blues Brother who insisted he was a twenty-five-year-old writer and I spent a half-hour with this fifteen-year old enjoying the repartee, happy I could keep out of the wandering flood of painted people who all looked a bit lost and resurrected from the vasty deep. I'm not a lover of parties, where I usually end up talking to someone as happy as I am to endure the alcohol-induced madness from a corner.

With Rocky Horror Picture Show blasting through the darkened and ravaged building, I meandered out into the unsubdued rainfall to find the bonfire, where I expected apparitions to more naturally arise. The blaze brought me into contact with ghoulish grimaces and deathly shrouds, and I imagined? incantations of weird sisters, howls from the waving trees and prophesies from water spirits crying out from the nearby maniacal River Skeabost--"...you shall come to me..."--and I felt fingers on me and they convulsed with spectral delight of flesh to be had.

  I somehow made my way to the room where I might find food and looked suspiciously upon something that looked like pumpkin pie. "Haaa-ve some pie," a whispered inducement blew into my ear, and with wide pupils staring intently at the offering, I could only mutter, "It doesn't have pig's head, does it?"

 I did find the ill-fated pig sans body as I was grabbing for some gory licorice treats, and I photographed his mutilated remains out of respect for his demise and  posterity.



Later, a man without his mask was looking almost normal as he ate his chili. He looked down at me and grinned weirdly: "Welcome to Skye!"

Where’s the beef…er…coffee beans?

There are a few rosehips in Bernisdale that I didn't filch

Just now having my breakfast after being up for almost three hours: My favorite oats with milk, pure yogurt (no additives, no pectin, the real stuff and cheapest in town), berries, flaxmeal, nutritional yeast (getting better all the time, eh carnivores?), with decaf. Now here we’re coming to the point.   

When I went to the bank in Portree to get cash for my rent, the exchange rate between the British Pound and United States Dollar was 1.73.

Being on a limited budget, as so many of us are, I have always gotten my great deals at thrift stores—so-called, because they add a bit of thrifty spice to our lives. I have to hand it to my ex-little town of Garden Valley, Idaho, for Granny’s Closet and Ruth Richter, who started Granny’s at the Senior Center. Her idea of thrift is to make great donated merchandise affordable for anyone and her prices are mini-mini-mini, even compared to thrifty stores in the U.S. Call me spoiled.   

So…I walks into the “charity shops” in Edinburgh and they have some nice products, mostly clothing, and I need things, not having been able to bring all items to the UK. But…everything is priced so much higher than seems righteous. No problem, I pay up and feel grateful.   

I arrive on Skye, October 8, and my first stops are the three charity shops in Portree. Again, I am shocked at the prices, but acknowledge the service that offers me wonderfully warm fuzzies and some small bits and pieces of necessaries. That’s the rub…small…I no see my much shopped-for (every day for three weeks) hair dryer, coffee grinder, toaster oven, light for over the kitchen sink, space heaters, blender, and household things that other people might be looking for, like toasters, small vacuums, and irons. What’s up? Maybe we need one more shop for appliances and small household stuff.

Luckily for me, I’m one of the most snoopy folk I know—comes from being a reporter, maybe, well no, might be that’s why I was a reporter…anyway, I creeps up to the attic in my charming croft house on Loch Snizort Beag, and hurray—I find a blender with attachment for coffee beans, in a box, so not even dusty. Point being made, finally: Where are the decaffeinated coffee beans on this isle? All this trouble for no fresh, whole beans…harrumph…and nosy me in this kitchen with my grinder attachment. Call me if you’ve seen them.   

Snizort Free Church of \Scotland

So here I am, having settled for at least the six undesirable months on Skye after years of having this dream of living here, after being warned off by Scots living in other parts of Scotland—“it’s too rainy”, “the cold, dark winters are hell”--and after being screwed by my ex, who failed to deliver the money. Talk to me in April if you want to say I told you so.   

Meanwhile, every day I awake to look at the curtains and ask, “What am I going to see out there today?” Each pull on the rings promises a surprise, because no day is the same. The clouds are masters of transformation, turning mist into magic and rainbows that hopscotch through layers of celestial suds and froth. My loch is a bit different, with no land mass breaking up the smooth flow of ebb and fill, but it glimmers and reflects the opposite Monet hills and the pretty Skeabost hotel with its jetty that was once filled with emigrants. It is a peaceful loch giving gentle support to the flocks of migrating and local bird life. The sun makes appearance for lengthy hours or peak-a-boos, but always gives a show of hues for Skye glam.   



One moment of one morning sky on Loch Snizort Beag

Amid the tempest, sunny autumn warmth, or skin-plumping vapour, my daily walks have produced some fun encounters with local residents so there will be ample material for Angel on Skye. Til then, floreat.