Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
the long loops of the road to the Bealach-na Bo we were inside the cloud, a grey mist
everywhere, lights on and visibility down to under a hundred yards. For all its mountains,
Scotland is a low country by Alpine standards, and when you hit cloud like this it's usu-
ally an utterly forlorn hope that you'll ever come out above it again into sunlight, but we
reckoned there was just a chance, by the time we got to the long flat summit, that we'd
strike lucky.
We cut back into the light on the last hairpin, rising above a sea of cloud that stretched
towards the west and the half-set sun. Submerged beneath the horizon-wide expanse of
white, almost all of Skye was invisible. Only the Cuillins rose above the ridged ocean of
mists like a fabulous serrate island of darkness, stark, severe and serene.
'Your dad used to walk all this way?' We were heading south now, having zapped
up to the ancient MacLeod stronghold of Dunvegan castle on Skye's north-west coast.
MacLeod country indeed; the two hills known as MacLeod's tables rose like decapitated
miniature Fujis to our left. We were close to Roag, where Ken's father, Lachlan, had
been brought up, looking for the house Ken remembered visiting a couple of times.
We'd passed the building where Ken's dad had gone to school some way back and Ken
reckoned there was still a bit to go to the house.
'Aye,' Ken said, grinning. 'In bare feet. And carrying a turnip for his lunch.'
'Ah,' I said, laughing. 'An
we
used to live in shoebox in't middle o' road an eat hot
gravel, but tell that to young folk today and do they believe you?'
Ken shook his head. 'No, seriously.'
'You're kidding,' I said, glancing at Ken to see whether he was or not. 'He really
didn't have any shoes?'
'Shoes were for Sunday, for church.'
'Dear God. What happened in the winter?'
'It got colder,' Ken said, straight faced.
'And a fucking
turnip
?' I couldn't help laughing. 'For lunch? Come on, that's got to
be a joke, Ken.'
'It wasn't his own lunch,' Ken explained patiently. 'It was for the pot. All the pupils
brought something to make a stew and he usually contributed a turnip.' He shrugged.
I shook my head. 'Good grief.' I thought I'd had it tough because we had slates and
chalk for the first year at North Queensferry Primary School, back in 1959 (slates and
chalk and a wee sponge, for clearing the slate. If you were good you were allowed a damp
sponge because you could be trusted not to throw it at anybody. My sponge, I am ashamed
to say, was dry after day one).
We find the house where Ken's dad lived when he was a boy; Ken takes a photo and
we continue south along the A863 - Talisker distillery and Carbost visible across the loch
- then retrace our route of yesterday along the grandly scenic coastal road, heading on to
