Yesterday the luverly Lyn drove us to Cullodden battlefield to meet up with a three-day tour that had left Edinburgh early that morning. Lyn sat with us in the car filling us in about the history lesson we may have missed, and talking up her “cuz” Neil (the tour guide) as a “blether” which means he talks too much, but in a positive way. The big white Macbackpacker bus rode into the parking lot, and Neil jumped out in a genuine kilt, bare legged beneath. The FREEZING wind suddenly felt colder, and with one big whoosh threatened to make our introductions far too reveling. He was a great talker, as promised, and at the battlefield I finally wrapped my metaphorical head around the Jacobite uprising. I walked alone over the huge field, site of the last pitched battle on British soil, and was impressed not just by my newfound knowledge of the battle particulars but by the fact that the view all around; grey skies, forest, snow-capped mountain ranges, was just the same as the sights seen by all those men that day, doomed to die; highland warriors. On a lighter note, I got to see some absolutely beautiful period flintlock pistols, and hold a reproduction to get the heft of it. I want one.
After Cullodden we drove down past the Loch again, past the Grampians and Glencoe vale, and over Skye Bridge to the Isle of Skye. All the way our driver Neil told myths, legends, facts and jokes, and played genuinely good Scottish folk and offensive Billy Conolly songs. A military helicopter flew past as e rounded the corner in view of Skye, and it was like Jurrasic Park 2.
Seriously, though, Skye is beautiful: I think the Skye Bridge is as close in name and destination to Bifröst, the Rainbow Bridge to Asgard, as I’m likely to get in this lifetime. We drank ale and (Daniel) ate salmon in the Saucy Mary with local fisherman, and I slept in the bed of a Viking King of Norway. Bliss!
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