As summer beckons, and those of us lucky enough to be able to plan trips abroad can start musing over possible destinations, Eimear O’Dwyer recalls a visit last year to the Isle of Skye and the many times she felt like she was back home in West Cork.
‘MAYBE I should trust that the wind knows what’s best for my flailing hair’ – Ellen Renton.
I saw this quote while sitting in a café on Isle of Skye last year and I feel it succinctly captures the month I spent there.
Not only the weather, the temperament and the swallowing, suffocating fogs, pulling you straight into the present but also, this sense that life does have a direction for you even when you feel a bit lost.
I had become well-accustomed to the thrill of being alone with my backpack and exploring, but after some months of volunteer projects in Asia and Italy, I craved a more permanent base to sew together stories from my dog-eared notebooks, and I found myself working in a restaurant in the Netherlands for the summer, in small seaside village near the forest, putting down my backpack for three months and exploring Dutch cities.
As September melted away in a blur of stroopwafels, cycles, writing and sea swims, I got an email from a café I had applied to months ago, on the Isle of Skye, asking if I could help with the last month of the season.
And so, with little hesitation, I swapped the flatness of Holland for rugged mountains, bogs, open sea, lakes, and cascading waterfalls.
As the bus rattled over the bridge to Skye, I felt like I was coming home to West Cork.
Glued to the window as I took in the throngs of sheep, the endless shades of green, the ominous hills and the cattle grids.
The small towns and villages etched into landscapes and seascapes.
I dropped my backpack in my room and quickly set to work in a busy café in a well touristed area of Skye, snuggled between the island’s capital of Portree and a little village called Carbost.
The Coire Lagan walk on the Isle of Skye in northern Scotland.
Having travelled alone for so long, I enjoyed getting to know the staff and locals, uncovering the common threads of craic and Gaelic.
Chatting to tourists, learning about the area, the legends, the stories and the characters.
I devoted my days off to climbing hills, squelching through muck, trekking through waterfalls, or finding swim spots with my workmates.
One of my favourite walks was a well-trodden route from Sligachan to the Fairy Pools. A friend dropped me at a field where I saw three tourists in ponchos fighting the wind. I received fairly ambiguous directions for the four-hour hike. ‘Follow the path. Turn left at the pile of rocks. Keep right at the white house.’
The start was mild. Wet puddles and muck and marsh. I was reminded of a walk I do at home, Mt Corin in Durrus, as I squelched and scrambled upwards, taking in the mountains.
And then began the rain, in sheets. Grey layers and white mists surrounded me.
It was unrelenting. Soaking through my clothes, sending cold into my bones. And the fog swallowed me completely, as I edged towards the Fairy Pools.
Portree, both the capital and largest town of the Isle of Skye, in the Inner Hebrides of Scotland.
My skin was red raw, prickling and burning. Breath taken, eyes watering, I saw the series of waterfalls and pools coming closer. And even in my frozen state I was struck by their rugged beauty. And awed by the views.
On my descent I met several drenched walkers who asked how much further they had to go. Not long, I said. Not having the heart to tell them.
When I wasn’t exploring outdoors, I’d take the bus to Portree to potter in the craft shops and art studios. Proliferated with images of highland cows and tributes to the sea and the hills of Skye.
It’s unsurprising to me that many artists and writers blow in and sprout on the island.
A local man told me that he feels the ‘veil’ is thin there. Something I had heard once before, from an artist speaking about West Cork.
I felt it too. Whatever you might call it. A pull to the creative, or a sense of something spiritual or majestic about the place.
