Saturday 15th April, W7D2

Dunvegan Castle more than lived up to my hopes, now in day-long warm sunshine. It's a proper family seat, having been in continuous occupation by a single family for 800 years. In 1265 the Hebrides were ceded to Scotland by the Viking rulers, on the death of Olaf the Black, and his younger son Leod inherited Skye as well as Lewis and Harris. His title was passed to his two sons, who became chiefs of the two branches of the MacLeod clan (remember them?) and the successive chiefs have lived in the property  ever since, each generation adding bits to make the Castle as it is today. The present Chief is the 30th, and a fine looking fellow he is, as were the previous 29 as seen in the portraits hung on the castle. There's plenty to see and all the public rooms are open to the visitor, with fine furnishings, library, portraits and numerous artefacts, and well informed attendants to answer questions.

The most treasured possession, behind glass, is the Fairy Flag, which I have mentioned in my earlier post about the Fairy Bridge at Sligachan. Many theories about its origin are documented, including the Fairy Bridge one, but the only thing we know (almost) for certain  is that is is woven in fine silk from Syria or Rhodes, and dated about 4AD, and may have been brought home from the Crusades. Of the theories about its supernatural powers, my favourite is set in the bedroom in the Fairy Tower (below), 

added by the 8th Chief in 1500. It is said that the  chief's wife left her small baby  unattended on the bed, and when she returned she found the boy wrapped in the flag as swaddling clothes, and the sound of voices singing the Fairy Lullabye. I asked if the music still exists as folk song, but it's believed that to hear the music would bring Ill fortune or worse, so it's never heard. So, again, you may adopt whichever theory takes your fancy. As long as you believe in fairies. You do, don't you?

There's also a lock of Bonny Prince Charlie's hair, given to the wife of the 24th Chief by Flora Mcdonald herself. (Flora's corset is also in the display case, as are too many interesting items to number here.) So on to the gardens. 

There's some colourful heather in full bloom, unlike that on the hillsides, which has yet to come to life. There are formal walled gardens, water garden, and woodland walk, as well as a decent waterfall. I sat on a bench in a quiet spot, with a large marble sculpture - the Dunvegan Pebble - with a sign that delighted me, particularly in view of the words I shared in my blog a couple of days ago. (Of course, I did. So would you.) 

Quick coffee in the cafe at the car park, and time to go in search of an interesting walk. I may have written earlier about the little book of walks I bought in Portree. It had misled me a bit about the best approach to St Columba's Isle, but I followed its suggestion to find a ruined Chapel, with some interesting gravestones. Unfortunately either I've lost all my skills of map reading (possible) or the book lies (my theory), so I never found the chapel. So instead I stopped at a sign for Dun Beag Broch, an iron age hill fort not far off the road. I was warned by the sign that it might be a bit of an effort, but I went as far as my unsteady balance would safely allow, ie, almost to the top, where a sheep mocked me loudly as I turned back to safety. 

I'd decided I'd park by the lochside in Portree and have fish and chips for dinner at a picnic table by the water. The road back took me cross-country (I know, I should know better by now) but it proved to be another Forty-Miles-of-Bad-Road experience (see my earlier Duane Eddy reference). I'm inured by now to the scary twists and blind summits, but the problem with this route was the potholes, and I'm still not sure my poor van's suspension hasn't suffered damage from the trip, as the rear wheel clatters down each one with a jolt. Anyway I got to Portree, parked, climbed 100 steps up to the street level, collected fish and chips and climbed down again. I did my best against a now piercing wind to enjoy the tasty fish supper in the open air with the view of the snowcapped Cuillins across the water, but in the end was glad to get into the warm cab and get back to camp.

A cold end to another busy day as a nomad.