Time for some sandwiches

Another adventure, the last couple days were. Rode the West Highland Line (one of the most scenic train rides in the world, really) to the Scottish coast. I just barely caught the ferry across the Sound of Sleat and within a few minutes I was on the beautifully named Isle of Skye. I got there fast and so sick of that, so I was ready to take it slow. In a place like Skye you're in no hurry because you're ready for anything and anything is permissable. Who cares if the last bus has already run? If you feel like moving on, hitch; if you don't, pitch. Haha. Anyway I did in fact catch a bus with a jolly and difficult to understand Scot named Roy and I just kept telling him how overjoyed I was to be whizzing around Skye in a bus. We found ourselves at the connecting bus stop ten minutes after the last bus of the day, of course. A couple minutes later a black VW Golf drives up and out pops another Scot who proceeds to Officially Inspect the bus stop. It was about time to catch a ride from a stranger so we hopped in.

I wound up in the tiny fishing village of Kyleakin as the sun started setting. The hostel had a real restaurant below it so I treated myself to some local seafood and an ale brewed just up the road called Red Cuillin. A Swede who spoke six languages fluently (Swedes are good for that) named William and I talked about traveling for a while. I learned an important and fascinating thing from him. Turns out a thousand-some-odd years ago, the Vikings came over to Britain from Sweden on a ship and decided to drop off all the ugly women (there couldn't have been many), and therefore we have the difference between Swedish and British girls. I think he's probably right, too...Queen, where are all your pretty daughters? There just aren't many in this country.

Castle Moil cuts through the ground like a big stone pair of scissors atop Kyleakin. There really isn't much left of it. I hiked along the coast up to the remains in the morning and that little castle was mine. Yet suddenly here's a Border Collie come up to see me. A minute behind her was a little girl named Ella Fitzgerald. I asked where she lived and she all but pointed. A Skylean in Kyleakin! We talked for at least an hour and she was the kind of twelve-year-old you could have an hour-plus conversation with--very well spoken, in love with life and dogs, and supremely intelligent. We talked about Hillary Clinton and rainforest deforestation and Buddhism and what it's like to live on a small island. Of course Ella Fitzgerald's not really her name, just her namesake. We both reminded each other that there's never a reason to grow up and we said our goodbyes--it was time to hitchhike north.

I'll finish the rest of this little story in a couple days, methinks. It's time to eat some sandwiches.