O'er moorland and brae: A Patch of Skye

We came to Skye past Eilean Donan (ay'lin don'en) a castle built as a clan stronghold in the 13th century by the Mackenzies and their allies, Clan Macrae, but bombed by a ship after they supported the Jacobites. Today it has been reconstructed and is in such a pretty setting that it looks as if it could be featured in every movie ever made about Scotland. It is gorgeous.

But, the longer we are in Scotland, the more we are surprised that the clan allegiances, between chief and clan members, lasted as long as they did. The poor clan members were little more than poorly paid servants for the most part. Even if the chief was benevolent, and not many of them were.

No doubt the clansmen had to be at the ready to dig in and help build, extend and repair these castles after each clash, too, as well as their own little bothy. Then they had to grow all the fruit and vegetables on the side, for market. And supply all the meat and dairy. And be part of the next clan war in Ireland, or wherever. And hop, skip and jump. It's difficult to see what their payoff ever was over some of these harsh generations in Scotland. They seemed to have to keep on giving.

Still and all, Eileen Donan is a picturesque entree to Skye, which is needed, as the early part of Skye is a bit of a jumble of shabby grass-tufted fields crowded with smallholdings which seem to have yard junk all over. But the further north you go on Skye the coastal scenery kicks in, and the tales of Skye entice.

Skye does not have the gentle pastoral charm of the Orkneys. Its central core of mountains, the Cuilins, which rear and buck, baring jagged teeth, often veer straight down to the water: a stunning backdrop for the many white houses dotted all over Skye.

Houses in Scotland are rarely painted. And rarely pretty. They are, more often than not, a dun earth colour: the colour of the stone from which they are made. Or, the dreaded pebble dash, left unpainted, so this white paint on Skye is cheerful. The island's rock features have become tourist attractions: Old Man of Storr with his large pinnacle rising, and Kilt Rock, neatly pleated like a kilt, folded all the way to the sea.

Much of the inner part of Skye is moorland, inhospitable to anything other than heather, bracken, bogs and sheep. It would be bleak in winter, and as he fled across these moors, Bonnie Prince Charlie was heard to say : "Even the Devil shall not follow me here."

The density of the housing is surprising, particularly on the Trottenish and Waternish peninsulas, especially after the space and the solitude we have been experiencing these last weeks in the more northerly sections of Scotland. And the traffic is a shock. The island is, literally, crawling with tourists. Almost every wee white house is a bed and breakfast, and German, French and Swiss number-plated cars troll slowly past, all searching for a bed. Yet the signs all say: No Vacancy. Business is clearly booming on these fine summer days.

Consequently the roads are suffering the strain in many parts and could do with a coat of hot mix, but that does not appear high on anyone's agenda.

The island is a big draw card for hill-climbers, cyclists and walkers, and, no doubt, the one or two suitable bathing beaches attract families. And, mayhap, the island's heroine, Flora MacDonald, draws many others. She has certainly captivated us, this young Skye lass, foster child of one of the chiefs, who helped Bonnie Prince Charlie escape to France after his loss at Culloden. Then went to jail for it. It is a very romantic tale, and the island makes the most of it.

We drove down the narrow little road to an inn at Flodigarry, a hotel of faded elegance in an exceptional position on the Trottenish Peninsula. We'd read that Flora had once lived in a cottage near here, and thought to take a look, having assumed the cottage would be long gone. We ended up chatting to the owner of the hotel, who was Dutch, and very new: she had only owned the hotel for seven weeks. When she heard our tale she beckoned to us, and had us follow her into the grounds at the back of the hotel.

Another unexpected and impromptu tour. She took us to a white washed cottage tucked behind the hotel, marked Private, which had been Flora's home after her release from prison for being a traitor, in 1747. Her image is all over the cottage. Very clearly, the local heroine.

Soon after her release Flora married Allan, a local, and another MacDonald, and had five of her seven children in this very house, before briefly migrating to the Carolina's during the War of Independence; then, finally, coming back to Skye to see out her days.

Further around the headland is Kilmuir cemetery and here, high on the land with the most beautiful view of the sea, is Flora's grave, marked by a large Celtic-style headstone. Though, this replaces the original which was carried off chunk by chunk by souvenir hunters over the centuries. Here, so the tale goes, Flora lies wrapped in a bed sheet that Bonnie Prince Charlie once slept in. Flora died in 1790, just two years after the Prince, remembering him even then.

Skye is rich with tales. Just around the point from Flodigarry, a babe fell from a Duntulm Castle window to be smashed to death on the rocks below. The babe's nursemaid was promptly put out to sea in a wee boat, ne'er to be heard of again.

The Duntulm site, overlooking Tulm island, is believed, originally, to have been a Nordic stronghold at the time the Vikings ruled supreme over many of these western isles. But then the MacLeods built here. Then it was taken by the MacDonalds of Sleat, but fell into disrepair in the 18th century. Then, the rocks from the castle were used to build Monkstadt House, just a few kilometres further south, from where Bonnie Prince Charles's escape plan was hatched by his supporters.

Further on is the port side village of Portree with its painted inns and houses. It was from the Royal Hotel here, at the end of his five months of escape from the English, that Bonnie Prince Charlie took his fond leave of Flora, as he headed back to France by boat.

We drove over much of Skye, and some roads we shouldn't have gone near, as, again, we found ourselves on a crumbling road on a crumbling hill just to the north on the Sleat Peninsula, after the hamlet of Tarskavaig, caught on the edge of a cliffside track which had no passing lane, at the very time that two oncoming cars were wanting to pass on the narrowest thread of a road. A bit of a crush. But, fine for us as we were on the inside against the safe, solid rock wall of the cliff face. But, scary for the others, I fear.

But, the scenery, for the most part, made up for it. And the tales.

On the lonely Sleat moors late in the day we found a man walking, and stopped for a chat. As you do in remote parts when you see a lone man with a pencil and a notebook. He turned out to be an academic from the Gaelic College down the hill, who had a passionate interest in the Sleat peninsula and the Clearances. We could have talked to him for hours. He told us that four settlements have been found on Sleat from the time of the Clearances, and each would have had about 150 inhabitants, all of whom were eventually moved.

There are mere stones in those areas today: close to the T-junction where the Gaelic College now sits overlooking the beautiful Sound of Sleat. The settlers relocated to other parts of the island, he said, tho' many migrated abroad, while others went to the mainland. All up, some thirty thousand people were cleared from the various peninsulas on Skye. Yet, today, with its population of ten thousand, Skye seems crowded in comparison to most of Scotland.

From Skye we caught a ferry across to Mallaig and pulled up at a raggedy campsite on a near perfect white beach which had the most stunning sunset we have yet seen it Scotland. Where children built a bonfire and charred marshmallows on it before they slept.