Magic Skye Trail Fail (3/4) Magie beim Storr

I actually made more progress than I had originally planned, largely because I had skipped the Fairy Pools yesterday. Today, my goal was to hike from Sligachan through Portree up close to the Old Man of Storr, one of Skye’s most photographed landmarks: three basalt spires, about 50 meters tall, perched at around 400 meters. I had hoped to find a quiet spot to camp near Loch Leathan before tackling the most strenuous part of the trail the next morning. But as so often happens, things turned out differently than expected. 🏕️ Yesterday, a dry, permanent accommodation in Portree was out of reach. I could have found something expensive, with a price starting with two or three digits, but camping in Scotland is easier: almost anywhere, you can pitch a tent for a night unless forbidden or on private land. I found a suitable spot on a strip of grass beside a large parking lot, lined with campervans from all over the world. Raising a flapping tent in the gusty wind was a challenge; the secret to a calm, secure night was properly tensioned guylines. Inside the tent, I took stock: my clothes were soaked from jacket to underwear, but everything in my backpack stayed dry thanks to a waterproof liner filling the bag. I set up a cozy sleeping spot with my new down quilt on the air mattress and dozed, listening to a couple setting up their tent nearby. The wind had lessened but rain continued. By evening, my water supply had run out. Ironically, there was the salty sea ahead, rain overhead, and a stream with steep, bushy banks beside me – yet I was thirsty. In desperation, I filtered rainwater from a puddle next to the parking lot. Welcome to “charming” Portree. 🚰 At 7 a.m., a brief pause in the rain allowed me to slip into my wet hiking clothes and pack the rest of my dry gear. A glimpse of morning sun sparked hope, but soon the sky darkened and rain poured again. I found some shelter in a bicycle shed: three out of four glass panels intact, shielding me from the worst. Portree offers everything hikers need—supermarket, pharmacy, outdoor shop—but no real protection. I stocked up on essentials, got zinc ointment for chafed skin, and explored the outdoor shop for a new rain jacket. Four jackets in my size, “Skye-category,” came at sky-high prices. Thanks, VISA. 💳 With my wet jacket stowed in my pack, I set out again in the new orange-blue jacket. Sun peeked through clouds, it felt warmer, and rain had stopped. Could this jacket turn out to be an unnecessary splurge? Maybe—but thinking of good weather seemed enough to summon the next downpour. 🌦️ I followed a scenic loop with views over the bay and met a friendly older Scottish woman with a Labrador. She politely mentioned that most hikers take the path across the meadow behind me. And there began the swamp: a pathless, exposed T3 section with steep climbs and slippery descents. Heights, wet heath, and gnarled branches tested my footing. The map’s dotted lines were only rough guides. Each step sank me into soaked moss or hidden holes. With my heavy pack, progress was slow, wind strong on exposed peaks, and encounters rare. 🗺️ By 2 p.m., I abandoned my plan to reach the Storr that day. No suitable camping spot existed in the heath, and sleeping near the main road or the Storr parking lot seemed unappealing. Yet somehow, I found a perfect campsite: flat, green, dry, slightly sheltered. I spent a cozy afternoon and evening there, wishing only that clouds would part to reveal the Old Man of Storr. 🏕️ Morning brought sun and few clouds. Muesli with powdered milk and hot coffee gave me energy for the “king stage.” I packed quickly without wind, said goodbye to my newfound sheep companions, and approached an old hydroelectric plant, leaving the pathless heath behind. Finally, firm ground underfoot, I marveled at how the 8-gigawatt plant powers the whole island. Skye seemed self-sufficient: water, electricity, sheep. 🌬️💧🐑 Crossing the busy main road and parking lot, I observed campers from around the world preparing for the hike—voices in many languages after 24 hours of silence. Then the climb demanded all my strength: steep 350 meters over rocks and steps. The spires loomed ahead, and I scrambled to the main viewpoint, taking photos and videos. 📷 The Old Man of Storr captivated me. These jagged peaks formed millions of years ago when landslides left massive basalt blocks standing. Myths of petrified giants linger here. Closer to the tallest spire, I sought a quiet ascent, leaving all the tourists behind. Alone, I touched the rough, cold basalt and felt a strange, profound calm. The outside world faded. Rising mist, perhaps a storm, maybe lightning—my vision blurred, and I felt small, silent, humbled, sitting at the foot of this ancient giant. 🫨