Skye: A Gallery
You wake up on a train, somewhere in Northern Scotland, headed westward to the Hebrides.
You gaze out the glass window, just one of many lenses that are filtering the view. The fog, rain, snow, and swathes of sunlight intermingle, showering mystery, color, calm, and turbulence onto the environment in equal measure.
Familiar structures and dwellings fade and vanish as the world grows colder with time. The vistas become less vibrant. They slowly evolve into eternal photographs, unmoving environments etched into the earth. As still and resilient as the riverside ice, refusing to yield, content in placidity.
The hues become duller and more nebulous as the train winds its way through mountainous terrain, a steel snake deftly navigating valleys, avoiding burial by the elements. Bright blues and greens of milder climates are replaced with dirtied whites, greys, and browns of forgotten lands.
But this is where you begin to perceive it – a tricksy phenomenon afoot. Hints of something hidden behind these bare tundras.
The last stop is signaled, and you gather your things and prepare to alight. The door slides open and the frigid air hits your face; the illusion begins to wane. You grab lunch at a nearby diner as the wind rages. The elder locals look up just once and clock your gear. Tourists. They go back to their meals. You sit, eat, and chat with your compadres as the ferry is readied. Once it is time, you join a handful of others on a surreal float across the bay. The clouds ebb as the island draws near.
A final bus ride from a concrete terminal to a quiet town. It is early January and the Isle of Skye is keeping its secrets. Some that you will discover in the coming days.
It feels like you have traversed the heart of winter itself and emerged into an alien Eden far from terrestrial concerns.
It is deserted, everywhere. Through the icy temperatures, bone-chilling winds, and occasional bouts of freezing rain, you have happened upon a paradise in the clouds. Beauty unparalleled, shared with close friends. Kin who have escaped similar tumults to explore a novel chapter in serenity.
You see almost no one else as you walk past lakes and ponds whose surfaces quiver like atomic clouds as the gales surge. You politely push between rock formations clustering together and stretching out their sharp digits into the atmosphere, as if delighting in their own tales of the firmament. You chase after sheep who dawdle and scamper along roads, amusingly delaying your adventure. You climb to the highest peaks only to nearly be blown off by the forces of nature, and the lowest trenches as you seek out hidden pools from fairytales.
There is nothing that is not magnificent here. The lenticular clouds circle above, overseeing slopes of dry-yellow grass and charcoal-black dirt, bathed sporadically in orange and grey. The surrounding waves continue their eons-long battering of the cliffs, tapering them to boulders, then gravel. Birds unknown dart by, at peace with the erratic currents. You are able to consider it all, in stretched seconds. There are inviting sounds all around; no intrusions from disruptive noises.
After these treks, you head back to your makeshift home. You spend evenings cooking stew at the hostel, purposefully extending the time so that you can play board games as you laugh, rejoicing in the everyday. You head out to meet the night breeze, only to be pulled into a pub where you and your companions are the only customers. You speak with the owner and trade stories from different realms as the darkness settles.
You sleep well.
When it is all over, you look back and cannot quite believe your luck. The usual storms did not make your acquaintance. The ground remained firm where it could have collapsed. The only hiccups experienced the ones good food gifted.
You find yourself back at a platform, too soon, with a long rail journey ahead. The doors open and you find a seat next to the window. A morning haze envelopes everything, shielding existence not a few dozen feet away. You rest your head on the backpack as the landscapes blur and the liminal is negotiated.
You leave it all behind like buried treasure.
