Albion, ancient sites, Magic, Photography, sacred sites, Stuart France and Sue Vincent, symbolism, travel

Dreaming Stones: A Stroke of Luck

Below us there was a loch ringed with hills. In the distance, mountains. Before us, a road that led to the shore. We hadn’t a clue where we were… unless heaven has a place on the map. All we knew was that coming over the crest of the hill we were faced with unbelievable beauty and a light that reached into the very depths of the heart.

We were not map reading. The road we had taken, through the Highlands from Dingwall to Kyle of Lochalsh, was a simple one to follow; the hills, lochs and forests were not really opening many side roads… It was not until we came down to the water’s edge at Balmacara that we realised that we had reached what was to be our destination for the night. We were looking across Loch Alsh to the Isle of Skye.

That was as far as our planning had managed to get. We had nowhere booked for the night and evening had long since drawn in. We had planned on sorting something out earlier, but leaving late, that had taken second place to finding food and getting across the country. However, as luck would have it, where we had parked there were a couple of guest houses and a hotel.

The hotel turned out to be expensive and fully booked to boot. But one of the guest houses had a vacancy sign for ‘one room tonight’… and we’d probably have taken it, at that point, regardless. It turned out to be a welcoming, spotless, comfortable place, with Pictish artwork on the walls and real coffee on the welcome tray… and all at a very reasonable price too, with a cooked breakfast thrown it. With a shower to die for, every tiny attention to comfort provided for and the most amazing view from our windows, we really fell on our feet with Christine and Paul at the Old Post Office House.

Revivified with that most welcome coffee, we took the plunge. We would book the ferry to the Isle of Harris. How often would we be this far north again? And anyway, we had both waited so many decades already, hoping to see this one special place…

But… dithering about whether we should or could had cost us our chance. The ferry was fully booked for the following day, which was the Monday. By Wednesday night, we had to be back in Sheffield, so I could be back at work on Thursday almost six hundred miles away. It wasn’t going to be possible… not with a drive like that ahead of us. Ah well, at least we could see a little of Skye.

If we had just one more day, we might have been able to get an early ferry. If the timing had been better… if I hadn’t been needed at home because of all the work going on at Nick’s… all the ifs came into play. Just one more day. I wandered down to the loch to call my boss. There are advantages to being employed by one’s son after all…

We had one more day! I dived back to the room and booked the ferry before we could lose the opportunity again. We were going to the Outer Hebrides and nothing was going to stop us. Except that, from that point on, pretty much everything seemed determined to do so…

4 thoughts on “Dreaming Stones: A Stroke of Luck”

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