Why I Love Skye

 The Home Office refused my application to remain in Scotland, even though I told them what an asset I am to the country. Can you imagine?! So off I flew last week to the United States, where I could be a fish out of water but I am still on Skye in my heart, so here is my Springtime on Skye.

In April, my friend Ann let me have a caravan on Tote, above Loch Snizort Beag, just across the loch from where I joyously spent the winter. Here are two of my views. The one on the left is the ubiquitous clothes line, which I never seemed to get the hang of...I saw clothing flying on lines all over the moors and lochs and townships and I have to assume something dried, as folks I talked to seemed to think nothing of it...of course, there is often the slight sour scent of old wet washcloth on some people--but not on my friends! I do think they are delusional about their drying lines.

Spring, I understand from Jennifer at the West Highland Free Press, is still upon the isle. Though I have only been away not quite one week, I have gone into summer mode and dread the heat, even though Portland
is supposed to have a rainy climate...where is it?
Sweat and two showers a day whisper...'summerrrrr' above my left ear.

 I was lucky to get so many shots of the pretty spring flowers on Skye.

I love bamboo and at my old home in the Rockies, I planted it, trusting what they said about it spreading...I said 'oh yay, I hope it does'...but it didn't. Wah. 

 Just walked around the isle snapping pretty flowers.

  Took a lovely drive off of the island to Attadale Gardens. My first thrill was to meet Nicky Macpherson, who owns and designed the gardens. I told her 'what a privilege' and mentioned that I wrote about her and the gardens in my book, Gimme the Song O' the Pipes. She is a gracious and very pretty woman of mature age and she was just taking a break from her heavy, springtime gardening schedule. Thrills happen every day of my life!

I have included here some of the sculptures in her gardens. The roe deer (above) crept upon me and we both startled each other. Hamish Mackie is the artist.

Alexander Jones carved the Chameleon (below) out of lime wood and cast him in bronze.

Profusions of bluebells were everywhere on Skye and in Scotland, as I made my way out of the country.

Above: 'Bream' in Attadale Gardens is a creation in pink dolomite by Kapasa Banda of Zambabwe.

 I actually drove to Attadale to
see the blue poppies--this is the only one I saw! Heavenly.

 I caught some children in Dunvegan, practicing their safety signals across the loch from McLeod's Tables, left.

 One of my many self-portraits, hopefully too small to scrutinize!

 Heading down the west side of Skye, toward the Cuillin, with Loch Bracadale on my right.

 My last little trek up from Sligachan was peppered with French teens passing me and me passing them. I practiced on them: 'Pas de probleme', 'Excusez moi' et 'C'est une bonne journee, n'est pas?'...oh yeah, my German and Dutch weren't so good but I faked it, by generally keeping my mouth shut...yes, me!

Good friends made it so hard to leave. Sob. Dawn is taking care of my sweet little Astra, Patience.

Stewart and Anne saw me off and received my second suitcase a few days later from an Edinburgh post office...consequences of my overly optimistic packing. I'd rather have it on Skye, waiting for my return. 

The Labrador puppy is Stanley--he kisses better than any guy I know and he lavished them upon me.

Photos of places and things that I love. The Fairy Glen, mid-winter, above.

I have a thing about gates. Sooner or later, I will do a post on Skye gates.

Uig Bay on a winter's day.

Edinbane Park Is a joy for mom and dad and kids alike. Dawn is the perfect example of motherhood.

Coral Beach, its turquoise water and mini islands are favorites of photographers and walkers.

Home Office wasn't happy that I was helping out at Crossroads Charity but it was so much fun, I'd never take it back...great employees, volunteers, community support and visitors to the island make it work and I've been volunteering since I was sixteen--wouldn't know what to do without it! 

Peter, the big cheese volunteer, with a certain reporter from the West Highland Free Press.
Two days before I left Skye, I was served tea and crumpets by Claire Macdonald, at a Marie Curie benefit tea under the trees at St. Columba's Church. I know we're not supposed to get excited by the laird concept any more, but I decided it was serendipity that this cook of Kinloch Lodge fame and wife of the Clan Donald High Chief spoiled me a wee bit!

Island townships are receiving defibrillators, one at a time. This was a neighborhood training session at Skeabost--young and old, we all took our turns and became pros at saving lives.

The Fairy Pools are a beautiful surprise on the way to the Cuillin's Sgurr an Fheadain.

 Me lovin' it all - an early March day so warm, I could wear a light cotton skirt... and my little blue kitchen in my cottage on Snizort Beag.




Skye Gathering Hall

 More that I love...Portree Bay, above...

I haven't seen a sheep in Portland yet...

 Remnants of the Clearances are all over the island...

 Castle Duntulm has an amazing prospect...Lewis and Harris are far off on the horizon...


...Skye roads are sublime.

Springtime on Skye is an explosion of babies...beware the roads...the good thing is, lambies and calves are not jaded yet and will run from the road at the sight of humans or automated creatures.

I am enamored of the history here. The McLeod castle of Dunvegan has this marvelous sea gate off of the loch. Below this, the Portree Skye Quilters' representation of the Battle of the Braes, for the famous Great Tapestry of Scotland, which chronicles 12,000 years of Scottish history. Notice the lassies throwing rocks...the women of this community beat the tar out of the bad guys (policemen and soldiers). This gives me faith that I shall overcome the 'powerful ones'.

Cheery, til we meet again.

Poet Don Paterson: Not a Calling, a Diagnosis!

Charlotte with Tony, one of our fellow writers.

As we waited for Don Paterson to arrive from a morning gig at Sabhal Mor Ostaig, Charlotte Johnson celebrated her last day as president of the Reading Room by indulging her taste buds with a yummy cone in the bar of Skeabost Country House Hotel. The rest of us had tea and cookies I brought in case of the munchies--and we had them! We were gathered to partake of what turned out to be a gem of a poetry workshop, some hours before the Reading Room evening meeting at the end of April. Yes, it was a month ago and as is the case recently, I am

Don Paterson at the head of the table: 'Try to converse in iambic
pentameter. It's much easier to do with a gin and tonic in your hand!'

remiss with my postings. My mind has been twiddled by dealings with the Home Office
and at writing time, I am in Edinburgh waiting to pick up my passport from immigration officials and take off for the U.S. of A. But as I've said before, that is another posting! Just wait til I've stopped crying.

From our patio location, I could look across Loch Snizort Beag and up the hill to Tote and my little pink caravan I had been offered for a month, by my friend, Ann. It was like having a workshop in my own backyard.

Margaret, Beverly, Charlotte, Val, Kathy and Tony.

Our good bud Don is an astute editor and teacher, thus we at the workshop were much better off as poets when we dispersed. I have all kinds of tidbits written in my little silk book: 

'Stick it in the title - then it relieves the poem of having to mention it!'            

'Identify the intention of the poem, then see the way it is doing and not doing it.'

'Is the word working? What is the line doing? What we're trying to do with the poem is being memorable.' 

'Fuzziness gives readers problems, when you could have told them. Is it literal?' 

'Emphasize but be careful of typography. You can literally do what you want, but what are you risking?' 

'If you are making a metaphorical move, be sure the reader knows.' 

'With hanging lines, the phrase can take a battering.'

'Try it in quatrains - makes it tighter, to move stuff it doesn't need - less is more.' 

'Show, not tell, but be careful of lots of concrete descriptions. What you're trying to do is prompt the feelings. The reader is concerned with his own feelings, so write with the feeling - provoke the feeling.'

'Sing your poetry!'

Don Paterson was introduced to the Reading Room audience by incoming president, Linda Henderson, with a list of impressive awards. Don said, 'It's a funny thing about poetry readings...I hate them and I'm just drunk enough to admit it,' though he said he loved one because of the introduction: 'A marvelous introduction - better than the poems.'

Still, the credits make you want to go and stick your head in the oven...this guy who stands at the blackboard at the University of St. Andrews has received the 2008 OBE, 2010 Queen's Gold Medal for Poetry, TS Eliot Prize, Forward Prize, Whitbread Poetry Prize, Geoffrey Faber Memorial Award, is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and of the English Association. He is also Poetry Editor at Picador MacMillan. He does music too...look up his website at www.donpaterson.com.

Doesn't he look like he has an attitude?
Folks didn't realize we had an agreement--I was to let him know
when I was going to shoot him...okay Don, NOW!

   More on the meeting: It was an occasion for accolades, hugs and tears, as Charlotte Johnson slid over for Linda Henderson, amid the gift presentation and verbal love tokens for the job well done. Charlotte told members that the highlight of her stint was Anthology - Words from an Island that the group produced: 'The reality is it's beginning to make money, thanks to all the artists.' She continued, 'I have to say as outgoing chair - I cannot stress enough - what a great committee we have. They're brilliant...and the high caliber of writers we're attracting... I'm also very grateful to Sarah Pentland for her work over the past two years.'

Linda Henderson is the brave new president of The Reading Room on Skye.

...and me, I'm missing the May meeting tonight, with Linda Cracknell and her just published book, Doubling Back. Boo hoo. I will continue Angel on Skye, because no matter where I roam my heart and soul are on the island. Feel free to send me info on what's happening.

Mandy Haggith Charms the Reading Room

Maoilios Caimbeul (Myles Campbell) and Mandy Haggith after a
spellbinding feast of tree poems in English and Gaelic.

It's a joy to be back on my my blog, Angel On Skye, after a long holiday and struggles with applications to remain here. More on that later but I am remiss, having promised myself to do a post on a wonderful event I attended in early February...so here goes, glad to be here!

The Reading Room presented environmental activist writer/poet, Mandy Haggith, in a late winter meeting on Skye, at the Skeabost Country Hotel on Loch Snizort Beag (incidentally a lovely historical stop for afternoon tea or dinner--see photos on my previous posts). 

Haggith introduced Into the Forest: An Anthology of Tree Poems, a book which she edited while working on her project, A-B-Tree, celebrating the link between trees and writing. Certain trees or shrubs are associated with every letter of the Gaelic alphabet and I'm not sure if anyone else could make it as interesting as Mandy does. Her extensive education, novels and books, and life path through collaborations and activism give her an assured demeanor and guaranteed an intriguing exchange of information of that winter's eve. 

The writer lives on a Lake Roe croft in Assynt, Scotland. She says, 'When I say I live in the most beautiful place in the world, most people nod. On Skye, they all say, "Yeah!"'

Her favorite tree is the Rowan, which is associated with the second letter in old Gaelic, Luis, from the Norse 'raun', meaning 'charm' or 'spell'. 'The Vikings thought the first woman came from the Rowan, the man from the Ash,' explains Mandy. She has so many curious, silly, intriguing and delicious tidbits about trees and things, you must check her out.

The selection of poems, chosen from works by poets of various nationalities, was made even more memorable by the participation of Maoilios Caimbeul, who followed some of Mandy's English versions with readings in Gaelic. 

Mandy Haggith is full of stories, anecdotes and hilarious quips and if you like trees, or bears, or anything in the natural world, I recommend that you search out this fascinating lady. Her blog is at www.cybercrofter.blogspot.co.uk  or search just by name. She's out there, in more ways than one!

Walkers Step it Up on Skye!

A gale of a day, with trees leaning and stinging rain,
will never deter this group of diehards.

Tramping over the hills on Skye is nothing new. There are so many intrepid walkers here, it might seem odd if you don't froth at the mouth without your daily dose of fresh air and leg work...but I find keeping a date with a group of fellow enthusiasts once a week is a social engagement that rewards me with much more than my own company.

Next to singing, there is nothing I like better than to walk and if I walk, I am usually talking to myself. Too many hours at home see me introspecting, meditating, and generally being silent as tombs. As noted in other posts, it is not unusual to see me grasping desperately at the chance to converse with sheep, cattle, chickens, dogs, cats, birds and any critter who passes my way--'Carpe' is my walking motto: carpe dog, carpe tree, carpe anything that moves, and blether, blether, blether. How rare to have a group of humans with which to share general information, personal stories, and even troubles. I have also accumulated a valuable cache of local history from my fellow walkers.

Just lean into it, ladies.

Partners for Wellbeing (PfW) are a registered charity that is supported by the National Health Service, Paths for All, Scottish Natural Heritage and the Inverness Common Good Fund.  PfW recruits volunteer walk leaders, who are trained to run weekly health walks in local communities in the Highlands. On Skye, there are groups in Lochalsh, Dunvegan and Portree. Sue Wood, of Roskhill, is our trusty leader in Portree and Dunvegan.

There is no lack of beautiful walks on Skye and they always end with a warm tearoom and hot cuppa something...and of course, the chatter of beautiful birds revelling in their strong bones and muscles, clarified brain power, and relaxed attitudes.

If you want to save your marriage, plump up your skin, and feel beautiful, start walking!

Our Step It Up Highland leader, Sue Woods, is second from right.

Step it Up Highland news and photos are on PfW's excellent website: www.pfw.org.uk


Bring your fellow or any companion that loves the outdoors and step up your life!

John Dobson: Farewell to the sky traveller

John Lowry Dobson 
(1915-2014) 

My old bud John Dobson passed away last month, January 15. 
(Though he was 99-years-old when he left his body, I'm referring to my long-time acquaintance with him). At the time  he left, I resisted writing about him here, because he was not a Skye man. Having thought about it, I have to say he belongs here at Angel on Skye, because John was mist and shimmer, myth and dream, fertile invention--if anyone could build a cloud castle, it was he.

John Dobson was my orb of the night, my loony lunar play-pal, my shooting star--a star-gazer mad and fleary as thistle down. He was a searcher and teacher of physics, with the levity of eider down let loose on the island moors. 

This dancer through life was a joyous gossamer thread to follow. I do rejoice in the memory of his rush from any part of the world to make it to our Hollywood Hills Christmas caroling ventures, in that he chose me for my voice and laughter--arm in arm--we raised our song like hounds at the moon. 

The ladies swooned over John for his loving camaraderie, his great sense of humor, his guitar-plucking, his easy ways which made us all feel like this is the kind of man we want in our lives--our ideal for true marriage of souls...we could say we wanted to marry him and thank goodness he never took us seriously.

John served as a Vedanta monastic in San Francisco and Sacramento, U.S.A., for twenty-three years (1944-67). There, Swami Ashokananda assigned him the task of reconciling Advaita Vedanta and modern physics.

For many years, he visited the Vedanta Society of Southern California--for several months at a stretch. When residing at the Vedanta Society, he presented a series of fascinating cosmology classes, each over a month in length. In his cosmology series, John started out teaching some basic ideas about the universe, the birth, growth and death of stars. Then he turned to the nature of the electron and proton, Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle, and Einstein’s equation for the objective separation of events in 4-dimensional space-time. This led to a discussion of what is behind space-time-matter-energy and how we get from it to this universe that we perceive. His cosmology directly corresponds with the ideas of Advaita Vedanta. John then explained how spiritual practices naturally follow from this cosmology. This brilliant, twinkle-eyed science guru turned me on to physics and I am forever grateful.

Twice while visiting Southern California, he appeared as a guest on the Johnny Carson Tonight Show.

John Dobson is the founder of the San Francisco Sidewalk Astronomers. His books are: Astronomy for Children Under Eighty (1973); Advaita Vedanta and Modern Science (1979) (republished as Beyond Space and Time); "The Moon Is New": Time Comes In With A Minus Sign; and Plans for Building a Sidewalk Telescope (free download) (1991). John also penned two articles in Prabhuddha Bharata (1985-86) and six in Vedanta Kesari (1988-96). Nearly all of these addresses and writings were on the subject of Vedanta and modern physics, particularly in relation to the scientific cosmology of Albert Einstein.

When in Southern California on a yearly basis, John also presented a class for constructing personal large-size telescopes at a fraction of their normal cost. He has become world famous for helping thousands of people make their own telescopes. Even today, many manufacturers copy his simple and elegant design, which is dubbed “the Dobsonian”. He and many of his students have made it possible for hundreds of thousands of people to view the rest of the universe through a telescope. He felt that it is important for people to start wondering about the nature of this universe, and he said that letting them look through a telescope is a good way to get that wondering process going.

During the last few years of his life, John resided at the Hollywood monastery of the Vedanta Society. He impressed many with his zeal for life and his regular meditation habit. He left his body on Wednesday, January 15, 2014.

Obituaries appeared in the Los Angeles Times and the New York Times. For a glimpse into what his friends valued him for, a number of videos of John Dobson can be found on YouTube.

Thanks to the Vedanta Society and Swami Atmavidyananda for bio notes.

Is it Spring Yet?

Sun raises his glory a little earlier...

one brave eye peeks over the bedsheet more hopefully...

leaf buds appear and some dare to swagger forth in lime radiance and apparent defiance of the ominous slate on the horizon...

mad-cap geese sail near the icy wind and tip, and almost flip...  

a lone tit pecks frantically for a peanut before perhaps the late-winter gale catches her plucky spirit...

…while snowdrops bow to whatever may come, tiny lion-hearts of February

bidding good morning to Mr. Groundhog

in giddy jubilation.

Days are becoming more glorious on
Skye and as you can see, these Orbost Highland cattle are dancing a jig...


well, this guy is just very good at playing poker--but I know by the tilt of the hip, he is swaying to the pipes.

Baby exhibited a few kicks and twirls but I think she had a flea.







The petite homesteader on the hill at Orbost estate showed a very good tossing arm. What a wall and what a great day to find snowdrops...

Irishman's Point Nightmare

Excerpt from my favorite book about Scotland (mine!), Gimme the Song O' the Pipes! 

The boys keep making sounds about my clotted cream belly again, after my gorge on chocolates last night. My host fills the jar every day--why, why? Today is my walk around Irishman’s Point in Broadford. It sounds like a simple, interesting walk along the Broadford Bay coast. Fooh and Angus say they are ready for an adventure...little do we know...

   We happily tread past the hostel, which has a prime location looking out over the bay. Fooh is impressed that I recognize the oystercatchers, with their bills even longer than their long legs which end in big chicken feet. Photo-taking of blackish, brackish seaweed turns on my artistic soul, then over a stile, around the point, along the edge of the water—when all goes haywire.

69.  Irishman's Point.

  It is a mucking mess, if I may say so. The rocks and basalt are slippery, so it is too difficult and no fun to walk close to the edge of the water. Up a bit is the deep sloshy, grassy muck. I become discouraged and decide to head up the hill and along a fence. The view is magnificent, with the isles of Crowlin far off in the distance, and closer up, Pabay and Longay. The going is just as tough here and I plan to move right up over the hill to the road on the far side of the conifers. No messing around.

  Uh-huh. Right.

  The fence is un-crossable here, so we follow it around the corner and keep climbing. I have to go pee, but decide to wait, then it gets worse, because I have to go poo. Oh dear. This happens to me every time I go into a bookstore. But why here? Okay, so it could be readily taken care of, except there is nowhere to step except on my bit of patchy grass. So my task is to squat in my own bed, so to speak, find bits of dried leafy vegetation to use and move on, hoping the troops aren’t close behind me—I can hear them now...oh yuck, what the...?

  Up a ways there is no trekking onward, too much vegetation, so I climb the fence and double-over to move under bushes—Fooh and Angus in my hood yelp occasionally when a twig snaps in their faces. As I creep along, hunched and slipping and sliding, I feel like Hyacinth in a comic sketch, but it gets worse. I am now looking across a vast stretch of clear-cutting on the hill. To the left, way up and over, is a long forest-like stand of fir trees. As I begin stepping into the mess of stumps and piled branches, it becomes immensely—I say immensely because my mind has just exploded with the realization—immensely obvious that this is going to be a nightmare. With each step is the possibility of dropping down into several feet of water and rotting, stinking-of-sewage vegetation. I am going to royally get paid back for my soiling in my bed antics. Fooh keeps saying we could or should go back the way we came, but the optimist in me says this can’t last forever and I hate to go back to the muck. After about an hour, I pause to take a self portrait of my plight, in case I never get out. They will have a last- moments-of-my-life illumination to give to my daughter Woo.

70. I'm smiling because

Fooh and Angus have toppled over and are on my right 

in the muck, but first things first...

I pause for the camera, hanging on and standing on a root...

  I choose a path, climb over stumps and realize that it is safest to try to follow the line of the tree roots. One path after another--guessing games of this way or that leading to the hill over there, or perhaps a road up there, end only in disappointment and frustration. I discover various trails made by tractors and follow up and down, and they lead to nowhere. Each step is tentative and I barely move five feet per minute. When finally we reach the line of trees at the top and think okay, we can go through the forest to the road, it only gets more treacherous. That is not a viable solution.

  I decide to move along the edge of the forest and by this time, I can barely move without falling into a bog or one leg dropping down into a hole under the delicate, rotting branches. Now, the terrain gets more lumpish and trenchy. Streams are moving under everything and I climb down and then up. This all strikes me as ludicrous, because I can’t be far away from anything.

  But I see no one—just rolling brown trenches and steep water-filled ravines and stumps and clumps of high grass--this Angus suggests I concentrate my weight on, which turns out to be my saving grace. Then my feet turn every which way, my ankles twist, my new fleece pants and shoes are filled with smelly water, mud and crap. On I stumble, wanting to cry, but why? What good will it do? It becomes almost impossible to move in any direction.

  After hours of this, I see some buildings. It turns out to be the company that is cutting these trees. Now the final hour—of acres of bog, six-foot piles of Christmas tree branches with no bottom, and all intermingled with—oh, la, what a surprise—berry vines! Acres of berry vines—wrapped around, trailing through, tangled in all of the above. I have fallen from grace with the gods and have been plunged into a dark hellhole. So close and yet, so far, far from any place I would choose to be rather than here. Angus wants to shout out for help, but I am too mortified. How embarrassing and how could I betray my country by revealing my stupidity to these Scots?

  No, I bumble on, tumble down; scratched, grabbed at by every nasty prickly bit of berry vine. My legs and hands bleed, each step catches me, digs at me, I pull and pull and pull the vines away and each step is another imprisonment. I can actually hear the men shouting to each other over there but they ignore me. For this I am grateful—once they heard my American dialect, I’d be a laughing stock. I practice my London dialect, thinking if they do notice me, I can convince them I’m an idiot from the south.

  By the time I break free and find my way through a junkyard of planks that want to flip and tip each time I tentatively put my foot on them, and climb over the fence, it has been four and a half hours since we left the water’s edge. When I step onto the blacktop of the road across the street from the Highland Free Press, I feel I have never been so happy to walk with a road under my feet and the boys cheer me on. I am exhausted.

  At Caberfeidh, I leave my boots on the porch, toss the guys onto the bed and walk straight into the shower, clothes and all. Afterwards, somehow refreshed, I take a walk to the Co-op to replace the candies in my room. By the time I get ready for bed, I have eaten half of the chocolates and am sick of myself. My last fading thought before sleep is, ‘Spare me from pigging out tomorrow.’