Winding south through the glens and past the burns, I’d always had rose-tinted glasses for Scotland. This single taxi trip in November fog both encapsulated and resolved the inexplicable sense of want that had been welling up in the back of my mind for years. My personal connection to Skye itself was non-existent. I’d strained for a legitimate claim among my friends to justify my obsession with the music, literature, and history of a place I had the most passing of passing connections to. It strikes me now that there are some emotions and connections that have no basis in reason but are somehow stronger than even the most forensic. In my case, studying south of the border allowed a good pretext for escape, and the final vindication of a long-held desire. This week was a revelation for me, leaving an impression of the warmth and humour of Scotland’s people and the stark beauty and strange dignity offered by its nature and architecture.