Sea and Skye
I think ethnically I’m about one-eighth Scottish, but based on how we grew up, you would’ve thought it was more. Our house was carpeted in tartan, Scottish prayers before dinner, I thought all kids ate haggis on Christmas. I’d been there once before, a solo trip I took the summer after my first year of college. I stuck mainly to the big cities though, Edinburgh, Glasgow, a little of the coast. I was excited to get myself out there again, this time we skipped the lowlands and headed straight for the mountains of the rugged north. We flew into Inverness but didn’t stay long, we hopped in a car and started driving.
We wound our way up north slowly, on endless highland roads, long days where the sun never seemed to set. Days spent hiking mountain ranges, through wind and fog and the occasional sunny clearing. We drove along Loch Ness, keeping our eyes peeled for Nessie, mist hung heavy in the air shrouding pine trees and castles along the way. We finally reached the bridge across to Skye, where we dipped in fairy pools, turquoise waterfalls, walked through the pinnacles of Old Man Storr.
It’s beautiful up there, so remote it feels as if you’ve been transported to another world - that or all the scotch had gone to our heads.