caol loch ailse

[raven]

Hello, internet. I am in Kyle of Lochalsh. This is the most remote point on the British rail network - three trains a day come in from Inverness, and three return, and that is all. Air BnB supplied a disused signalbox by the trackside, converted into a tiny little living space; from the window I can see through to the curve of the station, beyond which nothing follows. Kyle of Lochalsh was the port for the ferry to Skye, before they built the Skye bridge; now it's a nowhere place, somewhere on the way to somewhere. Though the local cafes make a lot of calling it rathad nan eilean, the road to the isles, which I suppose it is because everywhere's on the way to somewhere, there is something rather enormous and strange about seeing the railway end, the buffers, and then the land slipping away into the water. This is it. Nowhere else to go.

So far, I have woken briefly at the train passing through; bought a prawn roll from a seafood stall ("Can you wait a minute? We've just had the delivery and we're peeling as fast as we can!"); eavesdropped on three boys discussing in Bengali the merits of the mixed-seafood option; drunk coffee in the rain on the platform, waiting for A. to appear off a train, watching the clouds gathering over the Cuillin. And then the train came and for five minutes Kyle of Lochalsh station was the centre of the universe, and then slowly the people disappeared, and the gulls were screeching above the harbour, and apart from that everything was quiet.

I am going to visit Sabhal Mor Ostaig while I'm here. (I was scared to email them. They turned out to be completely charming people. "Madainn mhath Iona", they write, as though that were quite a normal thing.) Other than that, I am going to write, and watch six trains a day come past the window - three from Inverness, and three returning.

Comments

[thistlerose.livejournal.com]

I can imagine! Though the ferry itself was less exciting than the road to it. My aunt had regrets about insisting my uncle go that way.