Memories of Skye: The Celtic Echo in the Mist

The Start of the Journey

After my experience in Santiago de Compostela and my growing curiosity about Celtic heritage, I set out on a journey north. First Scotland, then Ireland… and finally, a small island I had heard about long ago — the Isle of Skye.

I arrived with a friend, but also with a personal search. I needed to walk different paths, wander without direction, and observe without rushing.

In truth, the trip to Ireland also had an intimate meaning. This was due to my Irish roots from County Mayo—being a descendant of those who once left behind towering mountains, golden beaches, and bays that tell ancient secrets. An Italo-Irish woman in search of her story.

Perhaps that's why, upon arriving in Scotland, something inside me recognized what I saw: the bagpipes, the wind, the moss-covered stones. And the stories—always the stories.

Legends and First Impressions

We arrived in Skye on a spring afternoon. The wind was cold but not harsh. The mist floated above the ground as if it were gently caressing the paths. Everything was silent. However, it was not the kind that unsettles. Rather, it was the kind that invites you to listen within.

From the very first day, I felt a familiar echo. It was like if something I had sensed in Galicia spoke to me again here. A soft melody emerged from an old radio, or perhaps from the air itself, with that blend of bagpipes and strings that seemed to come from the heart of the earth.

There may be no meigas, I thought. Even so, there will certainly be stories. I was told that old legends still survive on the island — of maidens turned into seals, of stones that sing if you speak to them with respect, of ghost boats drifting through the mist. As a result, I believed them all.

One morning we entered a small textile shop. It didn't seem particularly special. However, the owner — a kind woman with a weathered face and bright eyes — was glad to see us, as if we were expected guests. She helped me choose a scarf with the tartan of an old clan. She knew perfectly well it wasn't mine. I'm Irish, ma'am, I thought. Still, I accepted it as a symbolic loan — like borrowing someone else's history for a moment to keep warm from the wind.

The melody we heard that afternoon in a pub was slightly melancholic, yet tender. It slipped through the fog as if it knew that on this island, silence also has a language.

What I Found in Skye

In fact, our days in Skye passed with the serenity I had come in search of. There was nothing urgent. The wind sets the pace of our walks. When the sun appeared, it was an event in itself. I needed nothing more.

Each morning began with breakfast at the inn: still-warm oat bread, creamy butter, and homemade blackberry jam. A hot, strong tea served as a blanket while we watched the lambs move through the thick, wet grass.

Sometimes it rained. Sometimes it didn't. And honestly, it didn't matter.

We let the day guide us — on foot or by the small local bus, which, in fact, passed by as if it did so just for us. Lunch could be a steaming leek and potato soup, or a fish freshly brought in by a silent boatman. Dinners were always comforting: lamb stew, haggis with mash, and that slightly tangy rhubarb tart that seemed to tell a childhood story with every bite.

The beauty wasn't in anything spectacular, but in the simple things: the smoke from a distant chimney, a sheep approaching without fear, the soft texture of the scarf against my skin, or the way people looked in your eye and said good morning.

I didn't write any story in Skye. But, as a result, I came back with the feeling that I had lived one.