I Want to See Mountains, Gandalf

There's something about going to a place like Scotland that gets built up in your head. You expect the whole thing to be this beautiful, idyllic version of what you've seen on postcards and in coffee table books. On the surface you acknowledge that it's part of the modern world just like any other place, but deep down you don't want to believe it. You want to believe you're going to a land that could just as easily be Tolkien's Middle Earth or Lewis's Narnia. I wanted to believe it.

And though I would never call Scotland a disappointment, it would be a lie to say that every experience I've had here has lived up to that fantasy world potential. Not every experience. But one came very close. The Isle of Skye has some of the most untouched landscapes and vistas in all of Great Britain, and a couple weeks ago, I got to go there. The following is a mediocre account of my experiences that weekend, though the pictures represent the place better and a personal visit would obviously represent it better than that. If you don't want to read any further, just imagine that I went to Middle Earth for the weekend...minus the hobbits.

There and back again

As it turns out, at least a third of my trip to Skye didn't actually take place on Skye. It took place in a 9 person mini-bus that picked us up at Donnelly just a few short hours after my return from the A&E. On the first day, somewhat disoriented, I was fortunate (and unfortunate) enough to have front and center seat to the changing scenery as we drove up through the Highlands.Fortunate because the views really were astounding, and the further we drove, the more magnificent the world around us became. Unfortunate because I was much too exhausted to do anything besides gaze sleepily out the window, but the seat came with another obligation -- making awkward conversation.

Now, on my best day I'm not much of a conversationalist with strangers. If they make an effort, I'll participate, but in general I'm content to sit in a pleasant silence. And usually if someone makes the effort he is a good conversationalist himself. Usually. But Fergus is an exception in many ways.

Fergus was our tour guide and driver through the Scottish Highlands and Skye, though he himself is from England. His job involves him interacting with people all the time while leading them on hikes and mountain climbs, but he's not a people person. And though I gave every indication that I was exhausted and uninterested in conversation, he managed to keep up just enough comments and dead end questions to keep me awake for most of the first day's travel.

Not to brag, but I'm a pretty excellent non-verbal communicator when I choose to be. As I reluctantly climbed into the front seat and said "hello" to Fergus, I intentionally kept my eyes sort of half-closed, held my bandaged finger gingerly, and flashed only a half-smile. Once settled, I crossed my arms, brushed my hands through my hair so that it obscured half of my face, and leaned my head back slightly. I like to think that what I effectively said was "Hello, I'm not a morning person and not in a mood to talk." Apparently he didn't get the message.

At this point, I can't even remember what sorts of things he asked me, but I assure you that none of them required a long answer, or could possibly bring up good anecdotes. And whenever I'd ask him a question back, he would respond in as few words as possible. Furthermore, the job of communicating with him was entirely up to me because the van was engineered in such a way that the people in the back seats couldn't possibly hear what we were saying. Good.

However, there were some perks to being forced awake every 5 minutes by a thrilling fact such as, "There's a loch...I don't remember which one it is." Namely, I was able to see more of the country than if I had passed out. And a wonderful country it is. As we drove north, the shapes on the horizon slowly grew from rolling hills into towering cliffs. And finally, after 5 hours of driving with various stops at scenic lookouts, a castle, and "a spot of tea" we arrived at Broadford, our home on the Isle of Skye.

I ain't been droppin' no eaves, sir. Honest!

Broadford is quite an interesting place to spend a weekend. Highly involved the in the tourism industry, the city is teeming with B&Bs. In fact, I think it may be a law that if you have a

house that overlooks a harbor on Skye, you have to come up with a clever (or not-so-clever) name and call your house a B&B. Two of the girls in our group stayed at one such place dubbed "Green Gables B&B." The house had no green gables, and there was no one named "Anne" living there. Disappointing, I know.

But the most interesting part of Broadford was neither the poorly named residences nor even the view of the harbor, it was the people. Skye is a unique sort of place with unique sort of people living there. A unique sort of people who are great fun to observe. I would like to introduce you to a few of them...

Lullaby Man -

The reason for the name is only explained with a story. I should note that I did not witness any of this, but I assure you that it's an accurate account. Amanda, one of my friends, forgot to get her drink after she ordered it at the bar, so she went back without the rest of us to pick it up. As the bartender was getting it for her, a man (clearly intoxicated, as are most amusing people in pubs) who was sitting at the bar turned to her. "Sing me a lullaby." Now, Amanda wasn't sure what to say, being somewhat caught off guard. I mean, it was only 8:00 at night, after all. Much too early for bedtime. So she responded, "Oh, I don't really know any lullabies, and I don't really sing...so..." Lullaby Man is a very understanding guy, though. He replied, "Oh. Alright, well you have a lovely yellow face." Sensing that this was a fitting end to the conversation, Amanda returned to our table to tell us of her encounter.

Yellow Wellies Guy -

Ah yes, one of the more colorful (pun intended) inhabitants of Broadford. We came upon him during our first night in Broadford at the local pub. Now, before you think I've become an alcoholic or something, most of the decently priced food in Scotland is served in pubs. Especially after 5pm. Anyway, we were in the pub behind The Broadford Hotel, named "The Gabbro" and there he was stumbling around the bar in a rather normal outfit and huge, bright yellow wellington boots.

I personally didn't interact with him much, but he owned a dog who came in and out of the pub greeting everyone he encountered. The dog wasn't so much friendly as crazy. As a result, Wellies seemed to only keep him inside about half the time. However, sitting with him outside would sacrifice valuable time at the bar, so instead Wellies seemed to have developed quite the plan: Get random strangers to become interested in the dog (whose name escapes me), and then trick them into holding his leash for a bit outside. It worked surprisingly well, particularly if used on people who were leaving the pub slightly intoxicated. This brings me to...

Michael Jackson's #1 Fan -

As we were leaving the Gabbro that first night, we passed by a woman who had been conned into dog sitting for Wellies. I know that it was a con because she kept muttering to us that this was not even her dog. But between mutters, she had time to make conversation with my friends and me while we waited for our la

st member to pay her bill. MJ1 asked us if we'd heard about Michael Jackson, and before even giving us the chance to say "yes," she followed with another question: "Do you think it's true?"...awkward pause..."What?" "That he did all of those things they accused him of..." Again, before we could formulate some sort of awkward response, she continued, "I don't think he did it....I love his music...I grew up with it...I don't want to live in a world where it's true..." Assuring her that we also enjoyed Michael's music, we slowly walked away and left her to talk to the unnamed dog.

Grumpy George -

Although all of the aforementioned people were given nicknames by my friends and me, Grumpy George is entirely self-named. Additionally, he is the only one of these characters I've described who was sober. So he's already got those two things going for him...

We met Grumpy George while waiting for our ferry to leave Skye on the last day of our journey. His shop is one of the only two in the immediate area of the ferry port, and we had a few hours to kill. As it turns out, Grumpy George isn't grumpy at all. He is quite jolly. But Jolly George just sort of sets expectations too high...and sounds kind of lame.

As soon as we entered the shop, we were drawn to the back wall where there were huge landscape photographs highlighting some of the amazing scenery we had recently witnessed in person. I would say that the pictures were unreal, except that it was quite the opposite. They showed what our eyes had seen and what our cameras were too amateur to capture. Grumpy George, you see, is a professional photographer and he spent a good chunk of that morning giving us small lessons about photography as we waited for our ferry.

My favorite lesson is this: You don't "edit" photos, you "finish" photos. You see, the word "edit" makes it sound like you changed the picture in some way to make it different from what the subject was actually like. But in reality, a camera can't capture everything a human eye can. In order to make the picture show everything that you would see in person, you need to "finish" it using software, etc.

He also showed us his $10,000 lens and $6,000 camera, which he uses to take the pictures shown here. Amazing.

Do you remember the taste of strawberries?

While I'm in Stirling itself, staying at my flat, I buy groceries and cook boring things like pasta most nights. But when I'm out in new, adventurous lands I try to take the time to sample the local fare. (I also really enjoy using the word "fare.") On this trip to Skye there were plenty of opportunities for this sampling.

I'd like to mention here that while on this excursion, I had tea and crumpets. Yes, that's right, sometimes I drink tea instead of coffee. And by "instead of coffee," I mean "in addition to coffee." But still, it's something. Despite all of his awkwardness and lack of social skills, Fergus is an Englishman and Englishmen know how to make good tea. Every morning he would wake up early and set up our breakfast which always included a pot of tea. Knowing this, I couldn't resist buying a package of crumpets when I saw them in the grocery store. As it turns out, crumpets are sort of like English muffins, but without the nooks and crannies. All-in-all a disappointment. I'm much more partial to scones (also popular over here). But scones here aren't in the shape of triangles like they tend to be back in the states. The ones I've had are much more rounded.

So the tea and crumpets were all well and good, but my favorite food on Skye was the authentic Scottish meal I had the second night we were in town. Now, I should mention that much like St Andrews, many parts of Skye consistently smell of sea water. Even more specifically, port towns like Broadford smell of fish. I'm not a big fan of fish, but I am a big fan of shellfish. A huge fan. And so on the second night I had a huge plate of fresh, local mussels steamed in a white wine butter sauce and a pint of ale from the Isle of Skye Brewery. It doesn't matter that I don't have a picture, because the taste couldn't be captured on film. I'm sure the mussels looked like ordinary mussels, but they tasted like buttery little pieces of heaven. As each mussel entered my mouth, it simultaneously melted and exploded with flavor. (My mouth is watering right now.) The ale was excellent as well, though I think its excellence was overshadowed by the food.

So far, it sounds like all I did on Skye was hang out with drunk people, a bumbling Brit, and Grumpy George while consuming calories. In reality, these were all such minor parts of the journey to Skye. The real Skye, the one that transported me into another world alltogether, that was at the Quiraing.

There's no knowing where you might be swept off to...

I've tried to write about this so many times, but words escape me even now.

The weather (oh great, talking about the weather...original) the day we hiked the Quiraing was perfect in my opinion. In reality, it was probably typical Scottish weather. It ranged from 50-70 at varying points in the day. It was sunny. It was cloudy. It rained. There was a blizzard (no there wasn't). I think that if it had rained the entire time, I almost wouldn't have minded, though. I've got a growing appreciation for clouds since coming here and taking thousands of pictures. There's just something about clouds in a sky that help to throw a landscape into perspective. Sure, blue skies are nice, but they are sort of one dimensional. (Tangent, much?)

Alright. The Quirang. We hiked along the bottom of a set of cliffs, through large rock formations, across rocky meadows, through tangled heather, over stone walls, up a vast, steep hill and back across the top of the cliffs we started under. All of this took place just a few thousand feet from the sea that separates Skye and Scotland. And if you strained your eyes just a little, you could see the shadows of the Highland hills of the mainland towering over the opposite shore. Around every corner a new landscape appeared, even more awe-inspiring than the one before it. The view from the trail was epic. Epic is the only way I can think to sum it up. Our talk as we climbed went back and forth between these three statements:

1. Wow.

2. This is unreal.

3. I think that spot right...there...is where I'm building my castle.

But an even greater variety of commentaries were constantly being carried on in my mind. With each new view, my desire to share the sight with the people I love back home grew. I've made friends on this trip, don't get me wrong. And it was great experiencing such a surreal, breathtaking thing with them. But the more I see of Scotland, and the more I saw that day, the more I wanted to snap my fingers and have you appear there with me. Yes, you. If you're reading this, then I probably thought of you at some point that day.

Needless to say I didn't want the hike to end. Maybe it was tiring. I don't even recall. What I do recall is that each time we had to stop to wait for group members to catch up, I would pick a sturdy looking rock, usually coated in heather, to sit on and just stare at my surroundings in disbelief. The view from the cliff and below the cliff included a small village nestled beneath the Quiraing, by the sea. But just as I was in St Andrews, I was struck with the recognition that these human creations seemed so...insignificant. Pathetic, even, in the wake of the landscape that God has crafted. Essentially, God is amazing.

And on that note, I think I will end this account of my weekend, because that's really what I took from it. And that's what you should take from it, too.