Sheepish

The water in the bathtub was a dirty brown colour before I even got into it. I had cleared out the remnants of spider body parts and one fat cannibalistic spider from the old cast enamelled bath prior to wedging in an old, wrinkley, perished rubber plug to the gaping hole of the outfall.

Both taps were a bit stiff to operate and gave a disgruntled squeak when turned but appeared to run well. They began to rapidly fill up the deep sided tub so I left them for a few minutes. When I returned to see the steaming, rust coloured water and the prospect of a nice relaxing soak slipping away from me as an attractive proposition I was mightily disappointed.

The well worn instruction booklet for the holiday cottage was consulted and although of no reassurance to me at that time, it did state in the small print that the water supply on the Isle of Skye came through the peat bog soils and could, to those pampered with normal transparent bath water, appear a bit tainted. There were comments that there was no health or associated hazard from exposure to the pigmented liquid. During the fortnight on Skye I came to query this assertion. The indigenous population did appear to have quite an orangey hued skin only otherwise possible, in a very wet and misty micro-climate, through many, many hours under the UV tubes of a sun bed.

The cottage was one of a few white colour washed, low slung houses dispersed around a hillside settlement called Teangue on the south eastern coast road of Skye. The journey from our home in Yorkshire had taken 10 hours which, from past experiences, was a new speed record. Tyre contact with tarmac through England and the Scottish lowlands and that distinctive reddish Highland surface dressing over the 420 mile trip had only been interrupted by the drive up the metal ramp and onto the vehicle deck of the Ferry from Mallaig on the mainland to Armadale. Instructions to take up occupation of the cottage for our two week summer holiday were to pick up a set of keys from the owners who lived in  a modern house just on the hill slope below.

We pulled up in the family car outside a 1960's chalet style detached house, all dressed stone and horizontal timber claddings under a cheese wedge profile catslide roof. The sort of design that would not get past the environmentally sensitive Planning Authorities today. An elderly couple staggered out of the full glazed porch, beakers of, evidently Gin, in their unsteady hands. It was about three in the afternoon so this was probably a liquid chaser for a snooze or an early tea time. Upon learning of our drive up country from Hull the old man went a bit nostalgic about his days as a sea captain which involved regular layovers in the city docks. Their life story was condensed into a few boozy phrases and dramatic lurches which amused me and the wife but startled our two young daughters.

For the rest of our vacation we were checked in and out of the cottage by our hosts with invitations of a drink but it got to the stage where we felt embarassed by our reluctance to get smashed either early morning or mid afternoon. We took to sweeping in and up the hill in the car to the cottage giving them no prior warning of our arrival. The steep incline of the last section of driveway was as good a deterrent for a visitation by the old couple as a water filled moat around a fortress.

There was a lot to do within only a short distance of our accommodation. Family walks involved a quick dash past the picture window of the house lounge to get to the main road and across to a path down to the shoreline of Knock Bay.

Scottish beaches are a bit of a lottery. Either beautiful warm white sand, wave eroded smooth pebbles or smelly seaweed. Our Bay was the latter plus a thick layer of mud and silt washed out from the surrounding hills. It was a welly boot job rather than bare feet paddling. We skirted the tideline scavenging for razor shells, scallops and anything that moved and was visually interesting. The girls quickly got wet feet from splashing in the shallows but their joy at being in the open was not diminished by a booter.

A few crabs scuttled from under foot being well camouflaged in their barnacle encrusted shells. The hermit crabs were amusing in their panic stricken rush for the shelter of a rock pool. At the northern sweep of the bay was a promontory with a ruin of Knock Castle. This had formed the Clan home of the MacDonalds in the 1400's but was abandoned to fall apart in the late 1600's. I explained to my daughters that whilst Ronald was likely to be a name of Scottish derivation the spelling of the clan surname was different to the chain of burger restaurants and anyway, much later on in history.

The Castle was reputed to be haunted by a Green Lady, possibly our Gin soaked hostess ranging about on a good night.

The thing of most interest to the girls was the rotting and bloated carcass of a sheep just below the crumbling walls. They poked it with a stick and were thrilled by a tendon dangling, carrion pecked eyeball with only a blood soaked socket in place. Small amounts of gas from the decomposition of the vital organs could be heard escaping from the body. Its legs were twisted and fractured as though the tragic outcome of a reckless jaunt along what was left of the ramparts. The woollen coat was matted and starting to attract moss and lichen. Various parasitic creatures had started to carefully dismantle the animal starting from the tastiest bits and then anything fleshy or made up of muscle and cartilege. Other sheep just wandered about oblivious of the fate of, possibly, a family member.

Ironically the castle was also reported by the Guide Book to have a resident spirit or glaistig. The speciality of the entity was said to be a particular concern for the caring of livestock.

We were not exactly certain if it was an off shore wind or the whining lament of a badly failed spirit that caused us to feel a distinct chill. We had a simultaneous desire to run the gauntlet of Mr and Mrs Gordon's Gin to get back to the cosy cottage and a feeling of relative safety, even with that disconcerting coloured water.