Journey to the Mermaid's Lair

It all began, as great epics often do, on a pilgrimage for coffee.

The rain had ceased at last. Spurred on by provisional sunlight, I devised to hitchhike up the east coast of the island to Portree, the “capital” of the Isle of Skye. The window seat overlooking the shipyard at Café Arriba is my favourite place to snuggle with a cup of brew.

A car slowed at the roundabout outside Kyleakin. She’d taken a wrong turn. Laurie from France. She was trying to get to Elgol, she said, to see Spar Cave. Had I heard of it? No? Did I want to come?

Spar Cave isn’t a destination for middling tourists, who tend to travel in hordes up the east coast of the isle. Hidden below abandoned ruins in the ghost town of Glasnakille, explorers must drive almost an hour on the slender, winding road—which is scarcely wide enough for a single vehicle—around Loch Stapin towards Elgol. The panorama is simply spectacular: above, the open sky and the shadows cast by the tenebrous Cuillin Mountains; ahead, the giddy lambs cantering alongside the weary ewes and the endless thickets of skyward-thrusting furzebush—all in a grand ceremony to celebrate the coming of spring.

You can only access the cave twice a day, an hour on either side of low tide. By the time we pulled up to Glasnakille—deserted except for a handful of sheep—the waves had already retreated seaward, leaving us free to clamber from boulder to boulder below the cliff edge. Up above, thick clouds were bloated with rain but refused to yield. As we sidled around the slippery limestone precipice, the mouth of the cavern, reminiscent of the entrance to a gothic cathedral, revealed itself. Of two tunnels, the one to the right disguised a muddy cul-de-sac; the left fork, pitch-black, beckoned us closer before swallowing us entirely.

The faint light dispelled by our torches illuminated the way. The walls—made of calcium carbonate—gave the impression of melting, but they were solid to the touch. The floor, some kind of scaly flowstone, began grow steeper; although water trickled freely down the slope, the grip was fairly easy. After a few ascents and descents, we came to a sparkling pool. The walls, in glistening white, rose high above like those of a holy enclave.

The urge was too powerful. We tore out of our clothes and submerged ourselves in the cold, clear water, relishing in the beautiful darkness of a haven which felt miles away from the demands of the world yonder.

Aye, It was pretty epic indeed.