An Anecdotal Life

Scotland - Uig and the Cocoon of Doom

         My cousin, Brent, and I had been touring Scotland for about a week when we decided to visit the Isle of Skye. By all accounts, this was a lovely little island on the northwest side of the country, and it was highly recommended that we take time out in our travels to give it a go. So we went.

         Before we left, we were mindful to make reservations at the youth hostel in a wee town called Uig, at the very tippy-top corner of the Isle. Apparently, this was the shove-off point of Bonny Prince Charlie (in drag, mind you) after all of that nasty uprising business. It was even necessary to join the National Scottish Youth Hostel Association, or some such thing, which thrilled me to no end, my being a Mac and all.

         The day of our departure to the Isle, we got something of a late start and had to grab a couple of mince pies and Slushies as our breakfast on the bus. I don't know how many of you have ever eaten a mince pie, but I would highly recommend having one at your nearest convenience. They're the most tasty wee meat-filled pastries with toasty, flaky crusts and tangy sausage flavor inside. With a fruit-punch Slushie, they're not quite as quaintly traditional, but it worked in a pinch.

         We tottered along at a steady, sleep-inducing pace until we got to Fort William, where we changed busses. There, we stocked up on all the travelling necessities--chips, cokes, sweets and tabloid magazines, which are much more popular over there than in the States.

         We had just settled in to munching and reading avidly when everything we had just bought was launched over the back of our respective seats (we were across the aisle from one another, as there weren't many people travelling to the Isle in the middle of the week). I blinked, watching Prince William shoot out of my hands and make himself at home two rows back.

         Across the aisle, Brent opened his mouth to speak and was very nearly vaulted over the front of the row in front of him. I grabbed hold of whatever was nearby and stared wide-eyed over the seatbacks toward the front of the bus.

         It seemed we had a new driver. One who had been up for hours and was determined to see to it that we were just as perky and attentive as he was. He slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting a tiny hatchback in front of him (all of the cars there were tiny hatchbacks, so I didn't quite blame him for wanted to mow one or two down just for a little variety), then smashed the gas pedal and we careened around the white-faced driver at an impressive rate of acceleration for a bus.

         "Maybe we should have taken the train," I told Brent as I went to fetch my magazine. He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture and turned back to his snack.

         "You'll get used to it. They all drive this way."

         Ten minutes later, as we were both trying desperately not to breathe too hard, lest our bus go tumbling off the side of the mountain it was barely clinging to, I glared over at him.

         "Exactly how long will it take me to get used to it?"

         Except for the loud thud about halfway along our trip--which, to this day, Brent and I are convinced was the sound of a Saab being demolished by the grill of a bus--the rest of the ride was generally uneventful. I had a few moments of excitement when I realized we'd be passing right through my clan lands, but Brent shot me a glance to let me know I was being highly uncool and I contained myself properly.

         It wasn't until we were on the island itself and we began to stir about gathering our things that I noticed something on the schedule map.

         "Um, Brent..." I said tentatively, not wishing to embarrass him further (as though shouting across a sparsely crowded bus "Well at least I'm not a Campbell!" is all that embarrasing). "We'll be arriving in Uig in an hour or so, right?"

         "Yes, Casey." He'd been trying the entire trip to keep from looking like a tourist, and was somewhat unimpressed that I had a map out.

         "And we're supposed to leave there tomorrow in time to catch the bus to Inverness at noon?"

         Sigh. "Yes, Casey."

         "Okay, well, the busses don't leave Uig until 2:45 in the afternoon."

         That got his attention. He shot across the aisle and grabbed the map from me, studying it intently, his brow furrowing deeper and deeper until it became one angry, pointed V.

         "Well, hell."

         "Aye," I agreed, propping an elbow on the back of the seat and my cheek against my hand. "Now what?"

* * * * * *

         Brent and I stood in a misty town square, watching the bus we'd just departed as it disappeared around the corner of a local kiltmaker's shop. Uig had not been an option as our final destination, we had discovered after a brief conversation with the driver. Instead, we had to get off at a little town called Portree, which had a bus leaving for Inverness at a workable time the next morning. The only problem was that we were now in pretty little Portree with all that we owned on our backs and not a bloody place to put it.

         Giving me a pragmatic shrug, Brent shouldered his bag and started walking. He acted as though he knew where he was going, but I was the one with the map (in my pocket so we wouldn't be tourists, of course). With a resigned sigh, I picked up my bag, pulled my hood up, and followed.

         To our immeasurable delight, there was a hostel only a block away from the bus station. It was a cheerful yellow building with bright shutters and the door propped open invitingly. Brent and I stepped inside, shaking the mist off our coats, and nearly knocked each other over as we both came to an abrupt stop just across the threshold.

         There, seated cross-legged on the check-in counter, was the proprietor who looked suspiciously like an American hippie. His wavy silver hair hung loose to his shoulders, and what could only be described as "merry" blue eyes were grinning at our matching startled expressions. He greeted us as he swung his legs around to the ground, dispelling the American hippie myth.

         "G'afternoon to ye. How can I help ye?" he inquired in a soft Scottish burr. Charmed as always by the accent, I smiled and stepped forward.

         "We need a couple beds, if you've got any."

         "D'ye 'ave a reservation?" he asked, flipping through a clipboard on the counter.

         "No," Brent said, stepping up finally. He pulled out his wallet and he and the proprietor set about making arrangements as I turned to study the lobby.

         Lobby was quite a formal word, actually. More like a living room. There were two worn couches side-by-side with arm chairs at either end, all facing a low scratch-and-dent coffee table. There was a television across from the couches, but it wasn't on. I gathered that it rarely was. Grubby looking people who seemed to be about our age were sprawled about on any available surface, with guitars propped here and dredlocks sprouting there. I lifted a brow, glancing down at myself, then over at Brent, both of us in our clean, unfrayed jeans and L.L. Bean coats. We were not the usual fare.

         "Right, then. I've go' a room for couples open, but ye'll 'ave to share it wi' another couple--" I heard the proprietor begin to explain. Both Brent and I interrupted him.

         "Oh, no, we're not--" I began.

         "We're cousins," he finished. The man eyed us for a moment, then chuckled.

         "Ahh, aye. Cousins. Right."

         I rolled my eyes and turned back to perusing the lobby. Let Brent deal with that man.

         Ten minutes later we were standing in our room--thankfully equipped with one set of bunk beds and two twins placed across the room from one another--holding our clean bed sheets. Brent tossed his things on the bottom of the bunk beds, so I threw mine up top, and then we stood there. What in God's name did one do at a hostel?

         We knew we couldn't lock the door, there were signs telling us as much. We might have been idiots about our trip scheduling, but there was no way in hell we were going to get robbed, so we stuffed all our money in random and sundry places on our persons and headed out to explore the town of Portree.

         The exploration did not take long. There was a waterfront expanse of restaurants and shops, a tiny neighborhood at the top of one hill, a few practical stores such as the grocery and drugist here and there, and one very odd castle-less turret sitting atop a bluff that overlooked the water. There was, however, a gorgeous jogging path that led along the side of the craggy hill, weaving perilously close to the edge of the steep side. With nobody there to witness our Americanness, Brent and I felt free to snap pictures to our heart's content.

         After a bit more exploration, and the discovery of a nasty patch of dead fish along one rocky beach, we found a beautiful semi-cavern with a good ten or twelve foot waterfall pouring over the mouth. So long as nobody else was with us, we posed and photographed for a good hour, feeling warm and content in this foreign country that felt so much like home.

         Finally, though, it came time to return to the hostel. Dark was setting in, and the misty rain was returning, reminding us that it got nasty cold this far into the Highlands even in summer. We trooped back to our room, muddy boots and all, and got ourselves ready for bed.

         It was then that we realized that the sheets we'd been given weren't sheets at all.

         "What in God's name...?" Brent asked, holding up what could only be described as a linen cocoon. I blinked at it stupidly, then pulled mine off my bunk to unfurl and study as well. Staring at two of the things rather than one didn't seem to be the answer, as we still hadn't the foggiest what to do with the things. We did notice, however, that there were now bags on the other two beds in the room.

         "Let's look at their beds, maybe they knew what to do with these," Brent suggested. I guarded the door while he whipped the strangers' covers back and did a thorough inspection. After a bit, he gave me the 'all done' signal and we retired back to our bunkbed on the far wall.

         "It looks like," he explained, "we're supposed to put our pillow in the little top part and our bodies in the big section."

         "Like a sleeping bag?" I asked dubiuosly, eyeing my cocoon. He shrugged and set to work setting his bed up properly.

         With not much choice, I climbed up to my bunk and followed his instruction. I found, after I'd climbed into the new arrangement, that it wasn't quite as odd as I originally suspected. In fact, it was fairly comfortable, so long as you didn't move too much. My toes grazed the bottom seam of my cocoon and I wiggled them, happy to have conquered this new obstacle. Brent, on the other hand, was not quite so chipper.

         "Do you fit in yours?" he asked after a few moments of thrashing sounds. I considered this for a moment, tugging the edge up as far as it would reach, which was about my shoulders.

         "Yes, pretty well. Why, do you not?"

         "I don't seem to have a problem so long as I bend my knees," he said drily. I giggled and leaned over to peer down at him. Sure enough, he looked like a doodle bug, balanced precariously on it's back and doomed to remain that way until some kind soul came along to right him.

         "Maybe if you curl up on your side instead," I suggested, barely pulling my head back in time to dodge the shoe. I laughed and settled back comfortably, relishing in my shortness for once. Brent called me a few more choice names before we both relaxed enough to sleep.

         Later in the trip, we would turn our attention to more dire things, fretting and drinking until we didn't care to fret anymore. But that night, in that beautiful little mistake of a town, our only concerns were not seeing where the bonnie Prince fled Uig and getting a good night's sleep in our cocoons of doom.