It's always useful to quote an eminent writer or traveller to place into context the way one less eloquent might feel about a particular area. The West Highlands of Scotland, despite (or because of) its perceived remoteness, tends to generate a calming tone in relation to descriptive passages.
The 19th century writer Alexander Smith has said of Skye: "After eleven months labour or disappointment a person will find (on the island) the medicine of silence and repose". As you stand by the bay at Isle Ornsay early in the morning, with the mist shrouding the lochs and the mountains in a layer of grey gossamer, it's difficult to believe that another world lies beyond it. Skye isn't called the Island of Mist for nothing, and as for silence and repose - how very true that is.
In that truth, however, there are pros and cons. Firstly, the bad news. Unless you possess a light airplane (there is an airport for private planes at Aiseig, on the mainland close to the ferry port of Mallaig), it's going to take you over six hours to get to Skye. When you consider that thousands of Irish people take just as much time to travel to West Cork or Donegal, however, then it's not such a burden on the mind or the health. Secondly, the good news about the bad news. Once on the road towards the islands, the scenery is consistently outstanding.
On the way to Skye, we head north to Tarbet on the A82, through the Arrochard Alps, which consists of mile after mile of gob-smacking vistas that are dotted with remote dwellings. We pass Inverary, one of the first planned towns in Scotland, and home to the Duke and Duchess of Argyll. The town, a small, cute tourist trap, overlooks Loch Fyne and is as pretty as the proverbial picture postcard.
We reach Oban, a drab fishing port with some good pubs. In one, we overhear an outsize Scotsman arguing with a group of Irish sightseers about the technical merits of boxers Ken Buchanan and Barry McGuigan, and footballers Jimmy Johnstone and George Best. At the same time, he threatens to floor yours truly for having the temerity to claim himself a flyweight. He was joking, wasn't he? Someone asks for a mineral water and is refused. The pub doesn't stock any brand or make of same. Why? "It's not that kind of pub." The hostess was right, and a great time was had by all. Who needs water, anyway?
From Oban to Fort William to Glenfinnan, where, close to the banks of Loch Shiel, a 182-year-old, 65ft monument to the clansmen who died for Bonnie Prince Charlie, is Scotland's answer to the tower of Pisa. Leaning ten inches to the west due to subsidence of the sandy, peaty soil, the monument's guardian, the National Trust for Scotland, has appointed a structural engineer to monitor the angle over a 12-month period. The views from the top of the tower - reached by an extremely narrow internal spiral staircase - are superb, but only thin people need apply. Our guide, with a rare smile on his face, claims that the American blue rinse brigade tend to steer clear of this particular Scottish landmark.
At Mallaig we took the Caledonian Macbryne ferry to Skye, a smooth 30-minute crossing. Skye is the largest of the Inner Hebrides, about 50 miles long, and from seven to 25 miles broad. It has a coastline of 350 miles, and an area of about 350,000 acres. It is said to be, with justification, one of the most remarkable islands in the world, and has been singularly successful in attracting a tourist population far and wide, none of which seems to spoil its natural beauty and serenity.
Tourist numbers increase as each year passes, partly due to the somewhat more assertive marketing of the island as a valid holiday destination, and to the opening of the Skye Bridge. Up until 1995, access to Skye was by ferry only. Throughout the busy summer tourist season foot and car passengers had to wait for considerable periods of time in lengthy traffic queues for their turn to board the ferry. That irritant factor - a major turn-off for potential day visitors, at very least - has been replaced by a swift and carefree car journey across a 2,400 metre bridge.
Dubbed a mini-Forth Bridge (or the "Fifth Bridge" as a local wag put it), its opening brought to an end almost 100 years of the ferries as Skye's major gateway to the Scottish mainland. It was, however, constructed amidst no small degree of controversy, as an unprecedented campaign over the toll charges (£4.40 per car, £14.70 per minibus, per single trip) was waged. To no avail, though. Progress will have its way, and although ferry companies were hit financially, it's a pessimistic person indeed who will deny the effect the bridge has had on Skye's economy over the past two years.
We stayed primarily in the Eilean Iarmain/Isle Ornsay (dry island) region of Sleat, a district known as the Garden of Skye. It used to be a main west coast herring port with a busy shop and salt store in the harbour buildings, but is now part of the local estate owned by Sir Iain Noble. It's a particularly pretty place, acclaimed in print by Mairi Mhor nan Oran, the 19th century Skye bardess, as the area where "the furrows departed from my brow". Isle Ornsay has the type of idyllic small (and private) fishing harbour that generates a sense of well being after several hours driving, its end-of-the-world atmosphere blending in seamlessly with a "wee dram" of the locally produced whisky. The main drawback here is that it's very easy to become accustomed (and dangerously indifferent) to such a seemingly never-ending amount of natural beauty - Scotland in general has more rolling copper-tinged hills, and undulating purple crags than you can toss a caber at. In its rural areas specifically, it has an air of unfathomable solitariness that is simultaneously beguiling, inconsolable, and irresistible. That is the unforgettable experience that is rural Scotland.
And what about Skye? Well, this one has no limits whatsoever.