Day Seven: Reach for the (Isle of) Skye

Having reveled in the pleasures of civilized Scotland (heh), we made our way on this 7th day of our trip to the Isle of Skye, aka some planet more foreign sounding than Mars, which has been totally over-referenced. Dear Lord, the Highlands are a strange and beautiful place. I know, that’s somebody’s home I’m talking about and the Scottish don’t think it’s alien looking at all; the Scottish are wrong. Do you know how you know I’m right about how odd looking it is? Movie crews keep choosing to film there because of how odd it looks. The beginning of Prometheus, where they find the latest batch of cave paintings? Highlands. (Isle of Skye, even.) When James Bond has to take M somewhere remote and mysterious in Skyfall, where does he take her? Highlands. The Highlands are other. I loved that drive, and so did Lisa. We were also bemused that the most major thoroughfares through this part of the country were narrow two lane roads, often with steep drop-offs on at least one side. This was early enough in the trip that I actually cared about such things – just wait ’til we get to Ireland stories.

Our journey took us, as I’ve said, to Isle of Skye, and thence to a remote little inn that also happens to have a two-star (those are Michelin stars) restaurant attached to it. I’m not sure that sentence explains the weirdness of this. There is a restaurant judged, by a French company, to a standard that only about a dozen restaurants in Paris can achieve that you reach by driving for about 5 miles down a one-lane BICYCLE PATH FOR PETE’S SAKE through sheep and peat pasture. Yes, PEAT.  Somehow this restaurant serves amazingly fresh food in a place where all they can grow is dirt.  Anyway. The restaurant is called Three Chimneys, it’s super fancy, and after all this build-up, guess what? Didn’t care for it. (cue sad trombone noise.)

As it turns out (and I think I mentioned this about Martin Wishart) I don’t always go for shmancy foods. Lisa, thank goodness, enjoyed most of the 7 courses we were served. Alas, heathen that I am, I think I only enjoyed maaaaaaybe 3, and really the only dish that left a lasting impression was some crumbly salty fish thing that I found actively unpleasant. The experience, the charming atmosphere (just a dozen or so tables in a converted turn-of-I’m-not-sure-which-century farmhouse), the service, all lovely. Can’t win ’em all, I guess. In any case, we finished our meal and retired to our inn. Did I mention it wasn’t far from the Atlantic Ocean?

Tomorrow, A mad-cap drive across… everything, to get to Edinburgh. Wait til you hear about the gourmet meal we sit down to there! That is, if we survive the feral goats.

DISJOINTED MEMORIES

* Seriously, driving across Skye was solitary without ever feeling lonely. It was really, really, really magnificent.