A trip I intended to do for 3 years, didn’t plan until 3 days before and haven’t written about until nearly 3 months after.
I now know, writing with hindsight, that this trip was the beginning of ‘sorting my head out’, but that’s getting old…so I’m gonna hide metaphors of healing and mindfulness within tales of hurricane winds, wild-camping on mountains and a fantastic hippy called Neptune Lightbringer….
Apologies for the changeable level of nuttery per subtitle, I’ve written this over a period of weeks with varying amounts of caffeine and cake! So. Week one.
*** Arriving at and Setting the Scene ***
The drive was made more dramatic by it being that awful womanly week of the month. (Might as well start by being honest ey?!)
Perfectly timed for a fortnight of living out my car? HELL NO.
You know when you’re hormonal and EVERYTHING makes you well up? Shed an involuntary tear? Try driving through Glencoe at dusk after an 8 week slog at work. Jees, hand me the tissues.
Those mountains had an effect similar to a fine arse at the gym…I nearly fell off the treadmill/ drove off the road from gawping. (Don’t judge. I’m a 28 year old single woman working in a female orientated profession… I have a badge that says I’m allowed to look).
But seriously, why can’t my imagination conjure up an image of those glens and peaks? Why do I have to drive 8 hours to remember? Reason # 1 to move to Glasgow…
I stopped in Glencoe for some familiarity to ease me into the impending fortnight of independence. Last time I was there was with the arse wipe of an American that got me writing this ridiculous blog. It felt SO RIGHT to start my trip by staying there, getting wobbly in the Clachaig Inn boots bar, falling back to the campsite, sitting down next to the first campfire I saw and befriending some lovely Scottish folk.
To avoid me telling depressing tales of heartbreak (do I hear a sigh of relief?) I will summarise. The last two trips to Scotland were because of, or with, men. This time I went for me. If I happened to meet my soulmate on a mountain, which my parents desperately hope I will one day…then YIPPEE! but focus woman, that’s not the goal.
The goal?
To explore Scotland,
To explore the cracks in my broken mind.
To learn how to stop, see and listen.
To remember who I am, on my own.
WOHHHHH lass that got tense. Why ruin the mood? You can’t start talking about menstrual cycles then switch to that melodramatic tripe….
Let’s get descriptive.
***
As I approached the Skye bridge my random shuffle of Spotify landed on the theme from ‘How to train your dragon 2’. The bridge is like a rainbow over the sea, how you’d imagine a road stretching between planets. The combination of an otherworldly connection between the mainland and my holiday, my hormones, and a song written for flying mythical creatures….made me feel free. I grinned like an idiot.
My elation was soon dampened by the realities of Skye. I managed to arrive in Storm Hector. Sods law, the UK had been in a glorious heat wave for 3 weeks, and I was being blown into my holiday by 60 mile-per-ruddy-hour winds. (Met office report)
Luckily, I was mildly prepared.
I drove up the Western coast in driving rain and cloud, tantalised by the ankles of the mountains and discovering the towns, weren’t. My plans to explore on the way to my camp were scuppered by the weather and a realisation that my ‘Things to do on Skye’ list could be completed in a day. In hindsight, that attitude was coming from the perspective of a brain still functioning at ‘midwife life’ speed. I ended up taking a few days to put the brakes on that!
**** Lookout Bothy ***
After finding the only cafe on the west coast was closed, I decided to find my bed for the night. On the far Northern point of Skye is the Lookout Bothy, which quickly became my haven in a cube.
I knew, as I walked across the ankle-twisting heather to the dot on the cliff, that I had little chance of a space. To distract myself from the river flowing off my trousers and into my boots, I wove complex tales of woe, lies and deceit to guarantee me a bed-space.
In the end I realised this would be an awful start to my fortnight cleanse of spirit, and decided to stick to the hard truth – if I camped in a storm, I’d be blown into the Sea.
The truth dammit.
By this point the wind was so strong across my side that I was struggling to simply inhale and exhale without the shelter of my hand around my mouth.
Night one on Skye. I was sat on the deep window sill, knees curled to my chest, cupping my first of the holiday’s 13 glorious drambioui spiked hot chocolates. Seven hikers sat below me, cooking dinner on various complexities of camping stove.
A bang of the door and an unwelcome wind crashed in, followed by some excited noises and stomping of shoes. We worriedly looked round, knowing the space in our bothy was precious little.
A white haired, balding man appeared around the corner. He looked around the group with glee, taking in our surprised faces with big blue eyes and a pleased expression. He dropped his old hiking bag, laden with sacks of different sizes and shapes, into an ever growing puddle at his feet.
‘Can I stay? I hope so! I’ll happily sleep on the floor over there!’
We set about making space for the harmless soul, taking in his querks as we did so. This traveller, who introduced himself as Neptune (AMAZING), was soaked to the skin. His thin, mustard brown, martial-arts trousers were tied with cord and ripped in some unfortunate places. Darling modesty overcame any embarrassment. The fluorescent workman’s coat appeared warm but weirdly out of place in the hut of Rab and Mountain Warehouse. He explained that he needed to stay the night and perhaps even the next day, simply to dry his only two sets of clothes. He got changed and laid everything, from sopping wet sleeping bag to holey socks, to dry.
I stayed on my perch with a good view of the room and the storming sea outside, occasionally coming down to get a sugary treat from my bag.
Eventually we settled in for the night, four of us slept abreast on the wooden floor of the room with 3 sides of windows to the dark and stormy sea. The wind whipped at the bothy and our torches flickered with the turning pages of fiction.
***Neptune Lightbringer***
The next morning, I left my gear on one of the platforms to lighten my bag and bagsie a space for the night ahead, knowing the storm was set to worsen. I found a path along the cliff and, as the wind threw the rain towards the mountains, started to feel in control of my journey.
I chose a path and it was mine.
Alas, my mind had other ideas…
Slowly a feeling of unease crept in….I’d left my warmth and means to cook at the mercy of Neptune and any strangers who came across them. I nearly cried with the mental turmoil of not trusting and desperately wanting to trust! I decided it wasn’t worth risking my holiday for, and headed back.
Neptune saw it as a sign when I walked back through that storm beaten door to the bothy.
As I collected up my valuables, leaving only a pack of cards and mat behind, he stuffed his wet trousers into his bag and stood by the door, happy that he was to join me on the next leg of my journey.
The conversation that came to us two strangers on that walk across the moorland made me glad of my decision. I realised how lost I had felt. I saw the doubts I had both about my decision to travel alone and my ability to cope with my own thoughts for company. We didn’t discuss details, just that we had both been left adrift and alone. By rooting ourselves in the basics through travelling we were giving our minds space to think and process.
(Neptune’s life work is to read people and help them on their journey. He’s written a book (which he’s kindly emailed me!) and reads tarot cards. His last ‘home’ was a community in Portugal that sounded so peaceful!)
This stranger come kindred spirit helped me see that I was just beginning on my path. I should stop rushing to remember how to put one foot in front of the other. Why was I trying to run before I could walk?! Slow the fuck down.
He had been travelling on next to no money for years, meeting people who lead him on to his next adventure. He started me on mine.
I needed to make myself available to meeting the beautiful people that appear when you least expect it.
*** Wildcamping on The Storr ***
The clouds moved between the mainland and Skye at the level of my eyes, like ships in their bias to the sea. The mug of hot soup and potatoes cruelly burnt my mouth but kindly warmed my hands, slowly turning chillingly cold with every gust of mountain wind. My tent nestled under the cliff behind me, the needle of the Storr in front of me like a javelin thrown into my view by mythical gods. The paths of tourists had burnt snakes of orange into the mountainside, making me even more determined to ‘leave no trace’ as per the wild-campers code.
I sat, simply breathing and watching the weather until persistent rain made me seek the comfort of my fluffed up, orange sleeping bag and book.
All sense of time was lost with a soupy cloud and Scottish sun that never fully set. That night I resigned myself to my body clock, the weather and the mountain.
In the morning I awoke with the birds and left as fresh tourists invaded.
As I descended, she stood on an outcrop of sharp rock gazing at the view. I struggled to understand why such a beautiful Japanese woman didn’t fit in to the breathtaking landscape, other worldly beauty I suppose. She wore smart, black kitten heels. Her red town coat just covered her knees and was tied firmly round her waist, obviously failing at shielding from the Scottish weather. She shivered and brushed her dark hair from her eyes. Even more ludicrously perfect was the silk parasol leaning on her shoulder, complete with a delicate lace netting pattern. I held my breath for a gust of wind to carry her away. Instead she stood there watching as I lumbered down the mountain, I a stark comparison, carrying weighty practicalities on my back instead of a silk parasol on my shoulder.
*** Snapshot Observations ***
The world slowed. I became aware of brightness, movement, feeling. I wrote some of them down in my notebook.
A speckled grey horse throws it’s nose into the air and gallops across the field, without obvious reason or intent.
Neptune pours the Talisker into his mouth from a distance, showing an innate politeness by not allowing the small bottle to touch his lips. He swills it round his mouth with his tongue to get every last essence of the flavour, and nods. ‘That’s just perfect, enough for me. Bless you’.
A man walking his dog, headphones in. Stops to admire the view of the river then suddenly turns, runs and jumps over the back of a nearby bench.
A young boy is presented with his dessert, by far the biggest of all his family, a massive slap of chocolate brownie at least 10cm cubed. Pure, uncomplicated joy.
The couple at the table next to me, him on his Ipad, her looking directly at him, bored and unnoticed.
He realises in time, tries to interest her in his game.
She isn’t.
She sits on the wet, slimy rock, waterproofs from neck to toe, cigarette in one hand and beer in the other. The wind picks up her crazed curls, uncaring in whipping them around her face. Un-caring she sits.
The Lookout Bothy, the Quairang, the Storr, Cafe Arriba in Portree, my car. Places of refuge and hippy healing.
Please,
everywhere but my car,
go.
Being Ivy 
Missed your blogs Miss Ivy. Keep ’em coming xx stunning as usual xx
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