The very rocks here are alive. Just out the corner of your eye when you look away, they will writhe and reshape into a different contorted pose, the dragons within ready to pounce, freezing when you snatch a look trying to catch them at their devilry…
But you know they are there - the wiry veins of these demons are visible, etched across these slabs of rock.
Like the elusive path to Shangri-La, a way forward opens suddenly to lure you down a seemingly welcoming corridor, accompanied by a fresh beck bounding down the mountain stairway…
…that becomes a chasm, the now torrent leaping off an impassable precipice.
Elsewhere, these razor-backed ridges are literally magnetic, playing havoc with compasses.
The toothy crags inhale, drawing in mists from below in seconds, disorienting the unwary.
Later, suggesting it was all in jest, the sun will break through, the clouds parting…
…providing views as far as the Western Isles, and the Highlands in the east, pretending the earlier blustering and storms never happened.
The magic of Skye is, these mountains and cliffs right by the sea, tearing up and diving down, a tumultuous landscape. An earlier traveller, H.V. Morton, described them as ‘…Wagner’s “Ride of the Walkyries” frozen in stone and hung up like a colossal screen against the sky...’
So I listened to Wagner upon arriving on the Isle; afterwards I saw Valkyries, dragons and magic in every rock, cloud and watercourse.