Scotland where myth and mist combine

Scotland is named after the Scoti, a Gaelic- speaking people from Ireland who settled in what is naw western Scotland. The name was initially a racially derogatory term, used by the Romans to describe the Gaelic-speaking 'pirates' who raided Britannia in the 3rd and 4th centuries. Scotland is a land shaped by ancient tribes, fierce independence and centuries of struggle. From the legendary fight for freedom led by William Wallace in 1296 who emerged as a beacon of resistance, to union with England in 1707 and the suppressed Jacobite rebellions in 1746. Throughout its turbulence history, Scotland succeeded in keeping a distinct identity, culture and traditions that still thrives today.

Edinburgh

My first impression is rain. The smell of rain on old stones and ancient bricks combines with a chilly wind that brushes through my coat and penetrates all my layers of clothes. I feel the weight of history upon me. I walk the cobbled streets in the medieval old town and have my first glance at the shadow of the castle standing still above the Royal Mile. I cling to a longer twilight. The sun peeking through the clouds for a few minutes of grace makes it even more grandiose. I wander the steep streets and alleys full of architectural beauty with Sir Walter Scott's Monument - a victorian gothic building, towering above the city while the last rays of sun reflect on it. It is already past nine pm and it is still complete daylight.

The stone walls of the castle, blackened with age seem impenetrable. I walk via the arched Portcullis Gate and I question how it would feel to be a prisoner led inside these walls during the 1300s. A chill goes through my spine. Torture and misery - I am not as brave as I pretend to be. Underneath Edinburgh castle there are tunnels that are believed to be haunted by a lone piper - a small boy who disappeared. The boy, small enough to crawl through the narrow path, was to play the bagpipes as loud as he could so the watch party outside could map the tunnels. Suddenly, his bagpipes fell silent. No trace of the boy has ever been found. It’s said that the ghost of the piperboy can still be heard playing his bagpipes around the Castle’s ramparts.

A short walk downhill from our hotel leads me to Victoria Street. The picturesque, winding cobblestone street with its colorful facades features a collection of quirky, narrow buildings and shop fronts. A line of Japanese tourists In front of a Harry Potter souvenir store reminds me of the rumor that this street was the inspiration behind Diagon alley, frequented by the beloved wizard Harry Potter.

Imagine walking in a maze of streets frozen in time. A hidden underground with well preserved streets that were bustling with life in 17h century Edinburgh. There, beneath the Royal Mile, in a damp, dimly lit environment is Mary King's Close. Throughout the claustrophobic alleys, I get a vivid sense of what life must have been for the six hundred souls packed into this multilevel tenement. Here, inside the walls, living without any plumbing, they threw their waste down the street and never dared to exit for fear of demons, ghosts and roaming bandits outside the walls of city. By 1645, overcrowded and squalid, it became the epicenter of the Leith Plague, where many fell ill and died. Legend has it that the city sealed off and bricked up the close with infected residents inside. Reports of footsteps, floating heads and ghosts adds to a spooky atmosphere and a new chill to my spine.

The highlands.

As Edinburgh's "Arthur's Seat" (an ancient extinct volcano that rises above the city) slowly disappears in the rear view window of our rented car, it finally dawns on me - we are driving on the left side of the road but sitting in the right side of the car. Slowly, the terrain changes. We pass through rolling hills and wooden glens. It seems like the earth becomes greener and greener at the same time as the sky stretches wider and wider. Here, in between the green and the front of our car are white fat figures. These sheep, unbothered by us or by the capricious, changing weather seem without care in the world. We stop to take a photo but all they do is "meh-meh" and wander off. In Lock Ness, I find myself peering into the inky water of Loch Ness. Thinking foolishly, to catch a glimpse of the Loch Ness monster or Nessie as the locals call her. Legend says that Nessie, a long neck prehistoric creature that resembles a plesiosaur lives in the dark of the water. Inside the visitor's center, they keep the mystery center stage. Sighting, hunting expeditions, research. Among other memorabilia, there is a blurry photo of something that resembles a log peaking out of the water. People swear that this is proof of her existence. In my mind, this is just good marketing. Humans just love believing in the impossible and the money machine keeps on clicking. Outside, my iPhone says the temperature is 47F but with the winds, feels like 27F.

At Eilean Donan castle, the iconic fortress, dramatically set on a small tidal island where three lochs meet, I half expect to see the ghost of the castle show up. The grey in the sky behind the castle gives the appearance of old time ghosts. The name translates to Island of St. Donan (a Celtic saint from the middle ages). The castle was built in the early 13th century as a defense against Viking incursions. In medieval times, infamous events - such as the executing of fifty criminals in 1331, adds to the brutal history. In 1719, Eilean Donan was garrisoned by Spanish troops supporting the Jacobites. The British government, seeking to quell the rebellion, sent three Royal Navy frigates to bombard the castle. After a fierce assault, the castle was left in ruins. One of the more well-known ghosts of Eilean Donan is believed to be that of a Jacobite soldier that died that day. His eerie apparition has been seen often in the gift shop, clutching his head underneath his arm. Visiting the gift shop for a souvenir, I seek the ghost but no Jacobite head is to be found.

Isle of skye

The day started in a downpour. We are navigating treacherous weather conditions, while we try to maneuver the many roundabouts on the road. These roundabouts are very confusing especially for us Americans who are used to drive on the right (the right) side of the road. We hesitate with each turn. Right? Left? Is somebody coming right at us from the other direction? Too many unintuitive reflexes and visibility is poor. I am wrapped in every piece of clothing I possess. A base layer Patagonia wool shirt, my Norwegian ski pants, a wind breaker/ rain resistant jacket, puffy jacket, scarfs, a beanie and a neck warmer. My eyes are barely poking out behind my face covers but I can still hear the winds howling. A long, sad, crying sound, like a lost lone wolf calling for his pack. It is not an angry call but a kind of wild sorrow echoing down the glens. All of this, while gusts claw inside my jacket, my bones, my breath - in a bravura attempts to pull me off the cliff.

The Cuillin Hills dominate the landscape. We stay in a picturesque small hotel on private grounds overlooking Portree Bay. This elegant, circa-1880s hotel once belonged to the MacDonald Clan. Skye has strong links with clan battles. Legends are told in equal parts of myth and muscle. Territorial disputes. Loyalty and honor. Power struggles. Ancient rivalry. If I try hard enough, I can hear the clash of steel and the roar of the warriors. North of Portree, the main city, is the Trotternish ridge with spectacular cliffs and rock formations, such as the Old Man of Storr that rises steeply above the landscape and offers a panoramic view over Loch Fada. I stand beneath it, clouds move slowly and the wind whispers tales that are long forgotten. Then rain, sudden and soft, washing the world back to reality and to our times.

At Dunvegan Castle, the stones speaks in silence. This is the oldest continuously inhabited castle in Scotland and the seat of clan MacLeod for 800 years. A lived-in time capsule. I wander through its halls. My eyes tracing the tapestry of MacLeod lineage, polished wood, family portraits, names I can't pronounce. I press my hand against stone that outlasted kings and storms. The Fairy Flag, that was gifted to clan MacLeod, is supposed to bring miraculous victories when unfurled in battle but only three times. it's already been used twice and i wonder what the last one will be. Then there is the dungeon - a chilling little cell under the tower. It's dark, damp and eerily quiet. And I think of the women that once waited in those high, drafty rooms.

Surprisingly, the castle gardens are a peaceful contrast to the stern facade. Walled gardens, waterfalls, exotic plants and even a jetty that one can use to take a boat trip to see the seal colonies lazing on the rock. What a nice way to end our day until the rain comes...again