Chapter I

In anticipation of Barbara – Loch Lomond – Highland Clearances – Scottish folk songs – Sheep pastoralism – Windstorm

My journey to the Scottish Highlands coincided with the tidings of the arrival of Storm Barbara, and thus devoid of excitement, I embarked on the tour bus across George Square in Glasgow City. Immaterial became the itinerary, and I allowed slumber to conquer me. Despite such assumed dispassion, I must note that I was quick to exit the bus during every stopover.

On the shore of Loch Lomond, pompous ducks with speculum feathers of amethyst and emerald hues swam past me, with an air of superiority. A strange rainbow had then just emerged above the horizon, causing my gaze to alternate between the floating flock and the painted firmament far away.

The ride through the snow-capped mountains was made merrier by the soothing music played by Martin, the busman. He narrated the historical events surrounding the places he espied and expected his passengers, the tourists, to marvel at. However, in my ceaseless attempts to snatch forty winks, such noteworthy accounts went unperceived.

Akin to a berceuse, the Scottish folk songs—some of which connote the pith of consolation accompanying an era cursed with widespread diaspora and anguish resulting from the infamous Highland Clearances during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries—transported me to a world where absolute empathy was omnipresent. Very few are capable of conveying solace through words, in good faith. Hoping to listen to such pacific songs upon my return, I asked Martin for their titles.

Sheep pastoralism in the Scottish Highlands came about in the eighteenth century at the expense of their inhabitants, who were brutally forced to evict from their lands to make way for the flocks. Sparsely populated by humans and densely populated by sheep today, the cold mountains still remember the horrid past.

Often during the journey, I wondered why the sheep one found grazing in the remote mountains had their fur dyed in a colour different from that of the flock grazing elsewhere. I later learnt that colours helped shepherds identify their flocks, lest the sheep divagate or fraternise with the neighbours.

Thrice during the ride, the roof window of the bus submitted to the fury of the windstorm and flipped open, leaving me wondering if Barbara was in our neck of the woods. When Martin enquired if any of us wanted to take a stroll in such harsh weather conditions, I threw caution to the wind and volunteered. (I declare that my foolhardiness has no end.) A few passengers followed suit.

In the raging tempest, I found myself on the verge of being lifted off the ground. Thrown off balance, literally, and aware that my palpable existence had no bearing on the gusts, I held onto a rock with all the strength I could then muster. Disheartened by my inability to continue walking, I sat on the rock resisting the vehement winds when a fellow passenger enquired if I was fine. The benevolent girl lent me her hand as I replied in the negative, and we both resumed the formidable stroll with our hands clasped, in an attempt to withstand the violent gusts.

We returned to our seats windswept. I began to wonder how Martin could venture out with a single layer of clothing while the rest of us were almost always upholstered in layers of overcoats, mufflers, earmuffs, gloves, et cetera.

Chapter II

A night in Portree – Coastal towns – A lone house – A transcendental experience

My nights on the Isle of Skye were spent in the quiet town of Portree. One morning, as we were leaving the town for the day’s journey, I glimpsed a sea from the bus window. That I had spent the previous night cloistered in the hostel instead of exploring the town—where lay a sea—made me resolve to spend the night outside, upon my return the same day.

Coastal towns possess a certain aura which reminds one of his place in the cosmos and of his gossamery existence against the expanse of the ocean. My roots are in a coastal town named Mulky. Albeit I grew up elsewhere, over time I have come to realise that I have a special connection with the small town, in its entirety—its thalassic air, red lateritic soil, seaside odour, casuarina trees, thunder bursts, and baby coconuts. Merely writing about it makes me want to be there this very instant.

That night in Portree, I went in search of the sea. The inclined roads were punctuated by my dear subjects of shooting: street lamps and trees. The cold was intense, and I was carrying one too many things in my numb hands. More than once, the bread, which was to be my supper, fell on the pavement—a realisation that came upon me only after I had walked a few yards ahead.

I remember being so mesmerised by the sight of a lone house in the dark that I stood opposite the picket fence for some time, gazing at the little house, thinking about the minutiae of a domestic, conjugal life. As much as I tried to resist the sight, I found myself walking back, clandestinely gazing a little more, at the only house far away in the rolling grasslands. Aware that my action was akin to that of an interloper, I unwillingly quit the spot later and continued to walk, occasionally stopping by the street lamps.

Some surreal photographs of the places I had seen on the National Geographic magazines in the early two-thousands are still etched in my mind’s eye. Fueled by music, I have retreated to these places in my mind numerous times and received tranquillity. In the pursuit of finding the sea, some fragments of my imagination appeared before me and sent me into transports of delight. The atmosphere was embellished with a blanket of heavenly entities. Never had I beheld such a stunning constellation of celestial objects in the real world. In a moment of ecstasy, essaying to embrace the exquisiteness of the empyrean sphere, I began to spin round with my gaze lifted to the entrancing sky, watching the illuminated entities envelop the outer space and imbue my core with a deep sense of contentment—I felt in unison with Mother Nature. Such transcendental experiences, albeit ephemeral, impress upon our psyche; and when the meaninglessness of life has overwhelmed us, evocation of these very experiences enkindles feelings of immense gratification and fills the lacuna formed by the decay of love.

The road ahead of me did not appear to lead to a shore. So, I retraced my path until I found a parallel roadway that sloped downward. It began to mizzle, but I kept walking because the prospect of finding my destination seemed likely. I heard the steady flow of water near a stream facing a bungalow. I saw withered trees in the light of street lamps. At last, I met the sea. She was cloaked in aloofness, while the harbour lights were still burning. The inconspicuous shore was unwelcoming. I pondered vaulting over the natural barricade of coastal thicket to be on the shore, but desisted from it, for fear of stepping on the nocturnal sea creatures in the night and disrupting their peace and quiet.

After a night of perambulating the twisted and tilted roads of the placid port town of Portree, I returned to the youth hostel.

Chapter III

Moorland colours – Eilean Donan Castle

The predominant colour of the hills in wintertime is an ochre yellow. Come summer and the moorlands of Skye are carpeted with the mauve of heather. The Inner Hebrides had lost their fetching purple hues by virtue of winter, long before my visit. I could only imagine how appealing the sight of hills sheathed in purple heath would be.

In his quest to claim power, man has marred many a magnificent place. Eilean Donan Castle, which is encircled by a loch, has endured renovations since the thirteenth century. I had about an hour’s time to explore the castle whose last renovation took place in the twentieth century. The ethos and the charms of a bygone era were entrenched in the wakeful windows and the fortified walls of the castle. As I meandered through a series of empty rooms and glimpsed the charming appurtenances of the foregone times, the minutiae of everyday life in the face of perpetual skirmishes hovered before me. From a hole-in-the-wall of a dark and narrow passage, I watched a few birds waft over the jittery gray waves, against a stormy sky. Passing by a little room where entry was prohibited, my eyes fell upon a white skull mask hung over a window in the room. I slunk in to discover that it was a storeroom for decrepit items from the modern era.

In a faux kitchen-diner, I was riveted by the intricate wax sculptures set in a domestic scene of the nineteen-thirties: hearty women cooking up a banquet, finicky servants arranging the dining table laden with sumptuous items of food, a butler scrutinising a salver while a calico cat stravaiged about the banquet hall. I do not quite recollect seeing other figures of men; perhaps, the gusto with which the women in the kitchen were performing their domestic chores was attributed to the homecoming of the gentlemen—strictly, my fancy. Nevertheless, the setting was one of merrymaking and opulence, and the diorama of domesticity with such ornate particulars of punctilious mien and cooking was outstanding.

Chapter IV

Lochside woolshed – Snowfield – Sisterhood

Since a certain castle listed on the itinerary was closed to visitors, Martin decided to take us to a lochside woolshed. At our unintended stopover, the woofing of two mountain dogs halted my pace. The next few minutes were spent fondly stroking them and watching their hoary and tawny eyes mellow with delight, while the fellow passengers trooped after the guide. When one of the flock guardians began to gambol amid gusts of wind, my reluctance to shift the gaze was further reinforced. Consequently, I was the last person to reach the woolshed where the shepherd, who was also a shearer, had been describing the method of wool shearing. In the manner of curious hosts, the robust sheep—knowing that they had visitors—gleefully paraded before us and towards the shepherd, one after another. Upon realising that neither their master nor the guests had something to offer, they dawdled back, in sequence.

The shepherd’s dismay was evident as he spoke of the state of affairs in which the fodder for the sheep was much costlier than the subsidy they were provided, thus jeopardising prospects of a secure livelihood.

The coy sun had finally made an appearance in the Highlands. Beholding, from the window of a bus, vast swathes of hills canopied with snow sent me into raptures; their exquisiteness dampening my eyes and awakening emotions of all-encompassing love for Mother Nature and my sister, the epitome of optimism. I imagined how delighted a dear friend of mine would have been, too, to see wondrous places such as the ones that touched my core and suffused me with sanguinity.

My co-passenger during the journey was a Brazilian named Fabiana, whose eyes would glint with great delight whenever she looked at beauteous sights. Often, I would find her engaged in soliloquy as she filmed her idyllic surroundings. Yujin, the girl from South Korea whose benevolence in the face of a windstorm had moved me, and with whom I had shared a room in the youth hostel, took me by surprise once again when she gave me a box of short bread before we parted and said that they were for my nieces, about whom I had spoken so fondly one day. The two women were on their own in the United Kingdom. When the journey ended and the farewells exchanged, I began to think about the vastness of the ecosphere and the sundry experiences it could offer to someone who is willing to explore and embrace it, in good faith.

Thankfully, Barbara never crossed our path.