May 29 Mainland magic
This is much better. Bonnie Prince Charlie and Flora Macdonald are welcome to their Isle of Skye. The song that was running though my head this morning as I approached the ferry terminal at Armadale began: “Speed bonny boat like a bird on the wing, over the sea from Skye.”
As an island, it looks fabulous from a distance. But up close and personal, its defining features (apart from the mountains of course – when you can see them) are biting midges and smelly self-obsessed mountain climbers. It does have one saving grace, as far as I’m concerned: a pretty little nine hole golf course at Sconser on the shores of Loch na Cairidh. I spent most of yesterday there, playing golf in increasingly torrential rain, there being not much else to do on Skye except climb a mountain, and there wasn’t much point in that because the top two thirds of every one was shrouded in cloud and rain.
However, though I say it myself, I played pretty well and my happiness would have been as complete as could be expected under the circs, but for one rude awakening. Second time around, I sliced my drive to the long second into light rough. I took a four iron, to move it along. As the ball came out, it was accompanied by two clouds – one of spray, the other of midges. I am now smothered in Autan, but even with that, it would be a brave man who took his supper outside in this part of Scotland.
Radio reception returned as I reached the ferry terminal. This proved to be a distinctly mixed blessing. The first voice I heard when I tuned to Radio Five Live was David Handley’s familiar, grating, insinuating whine. He reminds me of Uriah Heep in David Copperfield – ever so ‘umble on the face of it, but underneath brimming with ambition, resentment and bile.
The description “fuel protestors” has come to define a new faction in British politics: embittered, right wing, militants-for-anything whose sole purpose in life is to get themselves on the telly, in any and every populist cause they can think of. The harm that Handley has done in mixing the farming community up in this motley, unprincipled, far-right leaning, egotistical ragbag is incalculable. And he represents no-one but himself (except maybe his wife).
After that, the sunshine which broke through as I reached my sylvan campsite at Camusdarach, midway between Mallaig and Arisaig, was balm to the soul. We (that’s Carmen and I) are just inland from a beautiful white sand beach, looking across to that wonderful triplet of islands, Muck, Eigg and Rum! The coast around the little golf course at Traigh, where I played this afternoon, reminds me very much of the Scillies, with its white sand, crystal clear waters and low, rocky islets.
This is much better. Bonnie Prince Charlie and Flora Macdonald are welcome to their Isle of Skye. The song that was running though my head this morning as I approached the ferry terminal at Armadale began: “Speed bonny boat like a bird on the wing, over the sea from Skye.”
As an island, it looks fabulous from a distance. But up close and personal, its defining features (apart from the mountains of course – when you can see them) are biting midges and smelly self-obsessed mountain climbers. It does have one saving grace, as far as I’m concerned: a pretty little nine hole golf course at Sconser on the shores of Loch na Cairidh. I spent most of yesterday there, playing golf in increasingly torrential rain, there being not much else to do on Skye except climb a mountain, and there wasn’t much point in that because the top two thirds of every one was shrouded in cloud and rain.
However, though I say it myself, I played pretty well and my happiness would have been as complete as could be expected under the circs, but for one rude awakening. Second time around, I sliced my drive to the long second into light rough. I took a four iron, to move it along. As the ball came out, it was accompanied by two clouds – one of spray, the other of midges. I am now smothered in Autan, but even with that, it would be a brave man who took his supper outside in this part of Scotland.
Radio reception returned as I reached the ferry terminal. This proved to be a distinctly mixed blessing. The first voice I heard when I tuned to Radio Five Live was David Handley’s familiar, grating, insinuating whine. He reminds me of Uriah Heep in David Copperfield – ever so ‘umble on the face of it, but underneath brimming with ambition, resentment and bile.
The description “fuel protestors” has come to define a new faction in British politics: embittered, right wing, militants-for-anything whose sole purpose in life is to get themselves on the telly, in any and every populist cause they can think of. The harm that Handley has done in mixing the farming community up in this motley, unprincipled, far-right leaning, egotistical ragbag is incalculable. And he represents no-one but himself (except maybe his wife).
After that, the sunshine which broke through as I reached my sylvan campsite at Camusdarach, midway between Mallaig and Arisaig, was balm to the soul. We (that’s Carmen and I) are just inland from a beautiful white sand beach, looking across to that wonderful triplet of islands, Muck, Eigg and Rum! The coast around the little golf course at Traigh, where I played this afternoon, reminds me very much of the Scillies, with its white sand, crystal clear waters and low, rocky islets.
Traigh golf course, looking across towards Rum
Yes, there are midges, and I swallowed a good many of them as I was cycling back from the pub at Arisaig this evening. But they don’t seem to bite as much as those on Skye, and I haven’t seen a back-packer all day – just posses of middle aged German bikers, of whom more anon.
Yes, there are midges, and I swallowed a good many of them as I was cycling back from the pub at Arisaig this evening. But they don’t seem to bite as much as those on Skye, and I haven’t seen a back-packer all day – just posses of middle aged German bikers, of whom more anon.
The beach at Camusdarach, where I swam on May 31
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