We named her Skye, after the majestic Island of Skye where her journey began. Our beautiful baby girl was born nine months to the day after my husband Richard and I hired a campervan and set off on our first road trip adventure around Skye and the West Coast. We didn't realise the real adventure was only just beginning.
The daughter of an ex-army man and Munro bagger, I’d spent my youth traipsing over Scottish hills and hiking up Munros in sunshine, rain, sleet and snow. I started young, when my dad, a devout Scot, convinced the family that three years old wasn’t too young to hike to the top of Lochnagar, a large Munro just past Ballater.
Defying the odds, I made it to the top and back, and thereafter spent a day sleeping in recovery. Several shoulder rides had eased my journey and Dad likes to retell the tale to this day of what is possible – at any age. Perhaps forgetting that not everyone is destined to be a paratrooper.
Like my father, my mother’s love for Scotland was without question. Her devotion to Deeside and the tumbling glens past Loch Muick was always clear, and when she wasn’t there, she talked of them, wrote of them and tried to escape to them whenever possible.
Perhaps it was inevitable that I too would live in adoration of my Scottish home; feeling a deep connection to its land, its voice, its mither tongue and folk. It’s fair to say I bonded with my home from the start. I loved the rich colours of Scotland; the soft landscapes of the East, the rugged hills of the West Coast; dooking in burns and rivers on summer days and picnicking in forests and parks. Never was I more relaxed than when I was wandering in its wonder and escaping to its remote spots of beauty.
And my first trip to Skye with my father, one of these such spots, was love at first sight. Driving through Glencoe, the mountains grew more extreme, the landscape more dramatic. Soon we were driving to a land on the sea, that seemed almost fictional with its extreme beauty and wonder. I knew after that first trip I’d return to this beautiful island that had drawn me in so deeply.
Several years later, I was on my way back, this time a husband in tow, who I was sure would marvel at its wonder too. We’d been trying for a baby for six months and were still full of the excitement that two might soon become three. After eleven years together and countless travel adventures under our belt, we were ready. Could the magic of Skye be our lucky charm? I dared a bit to dream as each mile passed and we headed closer to the Island.
Our first stop was the Fairy Pools at Glenbrittle. As we turned the corner to start the hike, towering black Munros greeted us, framing our destination like a piece of art. To the right a highland cow stood in a field, posing for pictures with tourists as if it was his day job; proud to showcase his home, like a keeper of a precious treasure. We of course obliged him, and promptly took our pictures.
Two hours later we’d hiked up the winding path towards the Fairy Pools, in Scotland’s summer sun. Sweating and happy we carefully found a spot and, before we knew it, were in swimming under a waterfall, dunking down into cool water that refreshed our hot skin and left us invigorated. We had made it. We’d read of this place in our guidebook but the Lonely Planet description did it no justice. It could rival any beauty spot in the world. That afternoon we swam, we picnicked and we found a campsite to relax and end our day. And on that day our baby girl was also beginning her life.
Perhaps it was the fairies that blessed us as we swam in their clear blue waters, or the magic of this beautiful remote part of Scotland – or both – or the uncontrollable aspect of fate, where you don’t choose the moment, the moment chooses you. Either way, nine months later, we were welcoming the beautiful Skye into our lives, with a name that had been gifted to us from our trip together. Our forever loved baby girl.
Six years have now passed and each day we watch in wonder as our girl grows up, full of the excitement of youth. Together, we are always to be found in Scotland’s spots of beauty: camping at its riverbanks, picnicking at its coasts, road tripping around its winding roads, with the window down in Glencoe, playing Caledonia.
And I see the look of adoration in her eyes for Scotland as we roam, explore and journey through it together. Am I passing the "love of Scotland" baton on to her, as my parents once did for me? Or is this a deal that has simply already been made? A whisper to the soul, like DNA being passed on through the generations. Perhaps we all inherit a piece of the love that runs through our parents’ hearts.
Scotland has us in its grip, never to be let go, and one day we’ll travel back to Skye, and swim in its fairy pools again, together as three. Until then, I’ll always have a place in my heart for the rugged island that impressed me so much in my youth and later years. I’ll always have a place for the beautiful Skye.