Isle of Skye & Knoydart Peninsula

Our first night afloat (after an epic journey from the far corners of the globe via planes, trains and automobiles) enjoying a blessed sleep on board The Lord of the Glens. We wake to the Wild West of Scotland, at the Kyle of Lochalsh, gazing across silvery waters to the island we will explore today, the rugged, romantic Isle of Skye. After a hearty breakfast we boarded a coach, where once a sturdy ferry was the only transport, we sweep across the new bridge which soars over the turbulent narrows (the Kyle). The road hugs the shore, in and out of rocky bays, past tiny hamlets of whitewashed houses, the russet, tousled Highland cattle, beneath the soaring granite domes of the Red Cuillin, until we reach the Sligachan Inn. Here 30 brave souls disembark to walk into the wilderness, while the fainthearted stay on board to visit the capital of Skye, Portree. Our brave band cross the ancient stone bridge built by Thomas Telford, skirt the plunging rock canyon fringed by shivering aspens, and climb into the hills, undaunted by carnivorous plants and bottomless bogs. A high grassy knoll gives a fine panorama of the rosy Red Cuillin, the mist-shrouded Black Cuillin peaks and the wide valley which writhes its way down to the Sligachan sea-loch. We return heroes, anointed by a refreshing shower, Lords of the Peat Bog.

Once back on board, the captain casts off at once to catch the tide. A brief circuit up under the 100’ high Skye Bridge, where racing porpoises break the surface beside the lighthouse of Eilean Bàn, then we follow an elegant sailing yacht back under the bridge, accelerating through Kyle Akin with the ebbing tide. Over lunch we race through the rapids of Kyle Rhea where common seals bob among the whirlpools, then plough south down the Sound of Sleat into a warm southerly wind. Bright sun on a dancing sea, green shores and white lighthouses. We tie up alongside at Armadale pier, on the southeastern tip of Skye, ambushed by a sudden rain shower as we walk inland to the Clan MacDonald Centre. Suddenly we are Lords of the Lilies, for our path in to the museum takes us through extraordinary gardens, where bamboos, azaleas and candelabra primulas flourish under soaring Douglas fir trees. What a contrast with the barren, sheep-grazed moorlands of this morning, where centuries of deforestation have left a rolling heather moorland. Here centuries of tree-planting have taken advantage of the warm, wet, icefree shores of Skye to nurture giant trees which tower 150’ over the gardens. The museum is tiny but telling: it explains the blend of Celt and Viking which led to the Lord of the Isles, a dynasty of fighting seamen who became the powerful Clan Macdonald. They reigned here from the 10th to 15th century, their rule over the islands finally broken by the failure of the ’45 rebellion, in reprisal for backing Bonnie Prince Charlie. The Centre is a modern celebration of the Macdonald tribe, scattered to the four corners of the globe by starvation, exploitation and ruthless landlords in the 17 and 1800s. A poignant pilgrimage for some of us: there are McConnells and MacDonalds among our number.

Our final leg is back across the Sound to the Knoydart Peninsula, one of the most remote in Scotland. We pass diving gannets and porpoises as we enter Loch Nevis, explore the inner reaches of this spectacular fjord and finally came to rest for the night at Inverie jetty. This cluster of shore side cottages is accessible only by boat or a 17-mile hike across the mountains, so we ended Lords of the Lager, downing pints in the Old Forge, Britain’s most remote pub. Surely we deserve a drink after such a day?