28/8 Skye Walker
The sun warms the tent. I crawl out of the sleeping bag, make myself a coffee, grab the camera, and head for the beach. It still doesn’t quite sink in that I’m strolling along a sandy beach on the Hebrides and have, once again, managed with AWO to get to one of Europe’s most remote corners. There isn’t much time left to enjoy it; dark clouds loom beyond the dunes. The cozy part is over; now I have to pack at speed while it’s still dry. Almost everything is boxed, but I might need three more minutes to stow the outer tent dry. Then I sit under the covered toilet hut for the first half‑hour of rain, planning my day route, the destination already fixed because I booked the Skye ferry when I bought yesterday’s ticket. The weather forecast says today, rain galore. And I think, “Screw it.”
Station 1: seal colony and lighthouse up north; Station 2: some historic village down south. That should line up to catch the afternoon ferry on time. With enough time left I wander the barren island at 50 km/h, humming “Scarborough Fair” to myself and even find the rain pleasant. When I reach the lighthouse, the seal colony looks like a fantasy construct from my navigation software. The cliff at the lighthouse is all the more beautiful for it. Heading south, a quick fuel stop with a cup of something hot is in order. It’s needed, because the dampness is slowly seeping into every seam of my clothes. When I arrive at the museum village I only look at it briefly from the outside. I’m glad I’m still wearing the rain gear and I don’t take it off. Not even the helmet comes off. Photographing now becomes a real problem, because every time I pull on gloves I bring moisture inside. And anyone who has ever tried to put on gloves with wet hands knows this can cause a spike in nerve flutter. Continuing toward the Tabert Ferry Terminal I’m surprised by a mountain range on the Isle of Harris that I hadn’t expected in this dimension. At Sgaoth Àird, the island’s highest peak at 559 m, the road twists upward with a Norway‑like feeling. The rain intensifies with each meter of ascent, but I still stop to snap a quick photo. The camera and lens are supposed to be water‑resistant; I can prove it here. As I go up and down the mountains the helmet no longer cools as quickly and fogs up from the inside. At the foot of the range lies the ferry harbor. I’m waved all the way to the front and seize the chance to shelter in a construction container used by the dockworkers. Only now do I realize I’ve gotten pretty soaked in places. I probably didn’t lace my right boot properly, the sock is noticeably wet and the foot is cold. A shame, the day started so well and now I have to get the moisture out to warm back up. Two hours on the ferry should be a good chance to do that. When it docks I’m the first on board. But the farther I drive toward the bow, the more my jaw drops and I become tearful. Unbelievably, the ship’s front is open, not closed. Everything is still exposed to the weather and my hope of rummaging through my luggage for dry socks gets a harsh dampening. And the trouble is just beginning. I immediately give the mooring master a clear refusal. My side stand has already suffered quite a bit because of people who meant well with the securing. There’s a brief verbal spar, and a colleague pulls the chief‑rigger away and lets me do it. I rig the AWO on both sides, standing straight, without a side stand—just like you’d do on a van. “Look, this is how it’s done!” I say. He probably doesn’t get the words, but hopefully the principle of securing a motorcycle. So, after digging out the socks, ordering macaroni at the onboard café, and slipping my feet onto a neighboring chair with thick warm socks, I enjoy the returning heat. And hardly believable, shortly after departure the sun actually comes out. At some point I drift off and wake up just before Uig. There it is—Skye, the most beautiful of the Scottish islands. And truly, a certain flair already spreads here. You close your eyes for a moment and—whoosh—you’re in another world. The ruggedness of the Shetlands, Highlands and Hebrides seems blown away, and Skye appears like a grace. Well, at least she’s carved from a different wood, rock, or whatever. Glenbrittle Campsite at Loch Brittle is my destination. After a few kilometres on the main road I take beautiful little side roads over and through Skye, up and down in a winding line toward the goal. The evening sun paints delightful light plays on the mountains and I now have fewer problems with all the photography stops. With a trembling heart and revived zest for life after this rainy day I reach the campground—and lose faith. Nothing romantic, nothing cosy. Like a huge sheep pasture with hundreds of campers, no structure in sight. The reception must be somewhere. When I find it, one thing is clear: “Get out of here!” Alternatives are sought; twilight still leaves room to find other spots. But as darkness deepens, one question grows ever larger: where will I find a place to sleep? Everything is booked. I’ve clearly made a strategic error. There are still a few wild‑camping spots, but they’re nearly impossible to locate in the dark. Or, put another way, I could stray from the right path. The very last possibility is—what the heck? In large letters on the wall of a big white building is a word I know well and associate with pleasure: TALISKER. “Oh man, that wasn’t on my plan.” A few metres further lies my last chance, the Old Inn. And lo, there’s still a four‑bedroom free. But not for me alone—it’s a dormitory. So I’ll be with total strangers, but with a warm shower. Want that? The warm shower and the cold dark night make me click “Book”. So, off to the shower, then over to the bar in the attached pub. Live music, a 10‑year‑old Talisker, Skye Red, Tamara—roughly that’s the order of the evening. Live music is good because live is always good. I earned that Talisker, the Red beer piqued my curiosity, and I met Tamara at the bar. She’s from Franconia and we discovered we share the same travel vibe. Only she’s traveling solo in a self‑converted T5 Bully. And, like me, she eventually got tired of waiting for friends and making endless compromises. Just go, ask no one else, and dive into the adventure. The “closing‑time” bell rang, ending a lovely Scottish evening. Unfortunately the story doesn’t stop there, and joy is followed by… a four‑bedroom with three women and Steppi in the middle. Wait, before anyone starts hallucinating about paradise: two of those housemates would have easily out‑shouted any male snorers while chopping wood. A kingdom for a bag of sleep!
