02/06/07: Skye to Edinburgh

We left Kyleakin this morning, and headed back towards Edinburgh. It was quite a gloomy day, not only because today marked the end of the tour, but because the weather had changed and the clouds had gathered.

We drove past Scotland’s most photographed castle, Eilean Donan. And added a few more shots to its reputation.

We drove through lots of mountains, Dave pointing out what Munros he could, and stopped to take a shot of Ben Nevis (Beinn Nibheis), the tallest mountain in the British Isles.

The most touching part of the day was the drive through Glencoe. Dave-the-tour-guide did a very, very good job I must say. He told us the history of the area, and it really helped that the mist was covering the mountains as we drove through them, the skies were grey and the mood was somber. Then he played the Ballad of Glencoe. By the end, I got a little bit sniffly-nosed myself. Naturally, when I got back, I did my own research into the Massacre of the MacDonalds by the Campbells at Glencoe myself. There doesn’t seem to be much discrepancy in the history books about what had happened. The Campbells had come into the MacDonald land seeking refuge and at the behest of the king, murdered the MacDonalds while they sleeping. Those who weren’t murdered died when their houses were burned or from exposure to the elements. If you see the photos, you’ll see how hard it would have been to escape from the glen – ridiculously steep mountains on either side of the valley means an impossible climb for even the most experienced mountaineer, let alone sleepy old women in children in the nighttime. The murdered MacDonalds are buried on an island and you can still see the headstones there today.

Eventually we started to come out of the highlands and into the lowlands. And then:

Dave the tour-guide: Oh guys! See that brrrudge thar? Now that brrrudge…
[Sounds of Velcro tearing resounds from all over the bus as everyone undoes their camera cases again: craaaaaak-craaaaaak-craaaaaak-craaaaaak. There are murmurs and whispers and a few ‘finally!’s and ‘about time’s]
Dave the tour-guide: that brrrudge… is not it either [Chuckle chuckle chuckle].

We stopped by Doune Castle, which was popularised by the scene from Monty Python and The Holy Grail (‘Your mother was a hamster and your father smelled of elderberries!’). There was a wedding being held there, so a piper was at the front of the castle absolutely killing the Highland Cathedral – yes! I know of traditional folk songs! Dave had played a version of it at some point during the trip to emphasise the point that when played well, the pipes could actually be quite emotionally charging – apparently it makes his patriotic side come out and he wants to don his kilt and go out and kill someone. And Mark found a CD called The Red Hot Chilli Pipers in a shop which had a decent version of it in there as well. So we all knew that the guy standing at the front of Doune Castle wasn’t very good. Because he made it sound like a cat being put through an old clothes wringer.

We got to Stirling and stopped by the William Wallace memorial. Now that was sad. Not only the story, but because someone had carved a statue of Mel Gibson and donated it to the Heritage Society. So they had to put it at the front of the information centre. It’s like road-kill or wobblifully large women with whale-tails and hipsters. You know you shouldn’t look but you can’t help it. You know you shouldn’t take a photo… but some primitive, buried gene whose job it is to file away ‘this could be you’ memories suddenly wakes up and reprograms your physical autonomy.

Sigh. And then it was Edinburgh. It was all over. I realised that I’d spent a week in Scotland and hadn’t yet tasted Haggis or a deep fried Mars Bar. I was determined not to get onto a bus until I did those things. So a couple of Canadian girls and I went and did just that.

The haggis was good. The deep fried Mars Bar was… I would say better. But it was… It’s like road-kill or wobblifully large men in Speedos. You know you shouldn’t touch it let alone taste it. But you can’t help it. Some primitive, buried gene whose job it is to file away ‘this-is-why-we-don’t-do-things-like-this’ memories suddenly wakes up and reprograms your physical autonomy.

We met up at a pub for some drinks later, and then I walked off with a lifetime’s worth of happy memories gathered within a week to catch my bus back home to mediocrity.