"I could get used to this" -- the philosopher George Ezra

Pictures aren't uploading on hostel wifi, and all I have to say about that is--and I cannot emphasize this enough--"ffffffffffdsfuierfdsfdasgyhkga.b"

Today I learned that the people of Skye are friendly and down to chat--indeed, they just start talking to me. This is a nice change for me: it's in stark contrast with the social conduct of your garden-variety New Englander. New Englanders, even when plied with maple syrup and craft beer, would rather be eaten alive by a cannibalistic anatomist than make eye contact with you. Throw bricks down any New England main street for a half-hour and you'll hit perhaps two people who were talking with someone they hadn't already gotten married to. (Side note: people think that Utah folk are more friendly than East Coasters. This isn't true. They're just married to more people.)

An enumeration the friends I made today:

-Rosie a hostel keeper

-Yverre, another hostel keeper

-The "hostel mum", who likely has a name (and is a medium-height woman, originally from London)

-The bassist of the ceilidh band (more on that later)

-Jess, who goes to the local uni

There don't seem to be any Scottish men, but I have it on good authority that they do exist, and that they're all named Stuart. Perhaps they run the pubs, or perhaps the males are very small, black-widow spiders or anglerfish. I aim to find some, one day. I'll leave a saucer of bagpipes out and see if it draws anyone.

(Very sorry to any Scottish people reading this. I understand that joke was mean and depended on stereotypes, but you see, I made it anyway. You haven't been oppressed by Americans since Mel Gibson made Braveheart, so I thought you could handle it okay.)

I got out of bed around 7:45, after almost eight hours of sleep, the first battle won in the war against jet lag. After a shower I should've taken the night before and a (free!) cup of hot cocoa in the hostel lounge, I felt ready to go meet Portree in daylight. It is small, all angles and cob-walled restaurants and shops on a downhill towards the sea. Most places, all you have to do to see a gorgeous spread of distinctive Skye hills is look east.

I had a very good café breakfast of beans, hash browns, veggie sausage, a small whole grilled tomato, fried mushrooms, tea, and one fried egg. I'm not going to turn down non-vegan options while in rural Scotland, for reasons of starvation.Then I poked around some, bought some soap made on the island (myrtle and heather, smells like how the island looks), and chatted with the Hostlers. Then came a rainy run down the road to a small network of trails, and a rainy run back, with me out of the shower at noon. I was going to the ceilidh (yes, I'll tell you what that is. Be PATIENT. Jesus christ) at 2:30, and I knew tea and cake was included, so I just got a nutritious lunch of chips. (Don't worry, I made up for it at dinner.)

A ceilidh, as near as I can tell, is the combination of a contradance, a singalong, and afternoon tea. It's a very good idea.

It was raining for most of the mile walk over to the Aros Centre, the location for the ceilidh. I could've gotten a bus, but I'm avoiding spending money whenever possible, and besides, buses are deeply depressing things. I don't know why. But it has been found that 17% of clinical depression in the developed world can be attributed with confidence to riding buses. (No it hasn't. I just made that up.)

The ceilidh was small, only fifteen or so people besides the band, but it was still great craic. Most of the dances were Highland trad, very simple walk-about-in-a-circle jobbies, and one "American" contra, featuring the sweet strains of "O! Susanna!" and "Turkey In The Straw." The kindly bassist asked me to dance, and I learned that I knew the steps of all the dances from my years on the American contra circuit, and all that remained was combining them. I danced with the bassist, a very short old lady, and Jess, age 17 (she had purple hair!). Great fun was had, and people were impressed with the American's dancing skills until he royally screwed up a line dance in his role as the leader of the lead couple. He forgave himself over a delicious selection of cakes, buns, and other such delights, along with two cups of tea.

I walked back, took a power nap, and got groceries. £12.31 for:

an onion,

a head of garlic,

a bag of "soup vegetables" (carrots, leeks, and some other stuff),

another bag, this one potatoes,

a container of mushrooms,

500ml of olive oil, a chili-ginger stir fry sauce,

a tin of vegetable broth that ended up unused,

a healthy amount of oats,

and a container of frozen berries.

The money spread pretty wide, considering the soup will last at least three meals and the oats and berries take care of the next week of breakfast. None of it was organic; I'll look in at the hippy health store next time I go shopping, but I'm scared of the prices. It is worth mentioning that the soup isn't as good as it would be organic. Still filling, though.

I'm eating now (I offered the group of middle-aged French couples some soup in exchange for a slice of bread, and they just gave me the bread without taking soup :D). After I finish I'll probably just read a book, maybe go out for something sweet, maybe not. According to the head of the hostel, Portree's night life is more like night death until Friday and Saturday, and that's okay. I want to wake up early tomorrow.

Apologies for the boring travelogue today. I promise tomorrow I'll write a humorous account of the screaming hellscape that is BritRail. For now, rest easy with this fun fact: I've started slipping into a Scottish accent. It's just happening. G'night xxx