My Solo Journey to the Isle of Skye, 2024
Preparations
I’d been dreaming of a trip to the Isle of Skye ever since I first saw the hauntingly beautiful photographs taken by one of my favourite Polish photographers, Karol Nienartowicz. His images of Skye — the mist drifting over the Cuillin mountains, the jagged cliffs meeting the restless sea, and that unmistakable Scottish light — had burned themselves into my imagination.
For years, I wanted to join one of his photography workshops, to experience those landscapes through the lens of a master. But this year, 2024, had different plans for my wallet — and for my priorities. It wasn’t that I couldn’t afford it; I simply decided my money needed to go elsewhere.
So, I made a bold choice: I’d go alone. No guide, no group, no hand-holding. Just me, my camera, and the wild beauty of Skye. My total budget? Around £300 for five days.
Sounds crazy? Maybe. But I did it.
I spent the evening before departure turning my good old Skoda Superb into a travelling fortress on wheels. I installed a roof box, then packed it methodically — well, almost — with food and essentials: ready-cooked English sausages, avocados, smoked mackerel, cheese, boiled eggs, bread, plenty of water, and a few ready-meal pouches from Go Outdoors for quick hot lunches. Alongside went the gas cooker, torches, and extra clothing for every possible Scottish mood swing.
Inside the car, I removed the rear seats (except the backrests), laid out a mattress and sleeping bag, and arranged my camera gear, lenses, and drone like a soldier’s kit before battle. It was a bit of a mess — but it was my mess. Functional chaos. Adventure-ready.
When everything was finally loaded, I looked at the car — a little sagging under the weight but proud, like it knew it was about to do something big. I set up the satnavs — both my phone and the car’s system, just in case one decided to get creative — and the numbers stared back at me: 11 hours, over 500 miles.
It was going to be a long drive, but that was part of the thrill. The kind of trip that tests both your planning and your patience — and rewards you with something priceless at the end.
This wasn’t a trip about luxury — it was about freedom. The kind that comes when you chase your own horizon, powered by curiosity, caffeine, and a stubborn love for photography.
Day 1: The Road to Skye
I finished work at 2 p.m., took a quick shower, threw on fresh clothes, and hit the road straight away. The plan was ambitious — drive through the evening and reach the Isle of Skye before morning. The car was loaded, the satnav set, and I felt that familiar buzz of excitement: the point of no return.
By the time I left the city behind, daylight was already fading. October doesn’t wait long — the night falls like a curtain. Soon I was driving through pitch-black Scottish roads, where the only light came from my headlights and the stars above. The darkness swallowed the landscape, and I could feel, rather than see, the wild country around me.
I made a short stop in Perth — popped into Tesco to buy a chopping board I’d forgotten at home. A quick walk around the car to stretch my legs, a deep breath of cold air, and I was back on the road again, northbound and determined.
The satnav kept flashing names of lochs — Loch Laggan, Loch Lochy, Loch Garry, Loch Cluanie, Loch Duich, Loch Alsch — but through the window, there was nothing but blackness. I knew they were there, hidden in the dark, waiting for the morning light to reveal them. Every now and then, I pulled over for a few minutes, just to shake off the stiffness. The stars above were unreal — clear, sharp, scattered across the sky like frost. I could just make out the silhouettes of mountains on the horizon. I even snapped a few quick shots on my phone — blurry, imperfect, but they captured the feeling.
Around midnight, the road began to twist and rise again. Then, finally — there it was — the Skye Bridge, arching in front of me, lit faintly by the streetlights. Crossing it felt electric. I rolled down the window and just laughed to myself — Woo-hoo! I made it.
Once on the island, I started scouting for a place to sleep. The road was quiet, empty except for the occasional passing van. Not far from Portree, I found a small layby where two campervans had already parked for the night. I pulled in beside them, shut off the engine, and the silence hit me — deep, complete, almost sacred.
I didn’t bother unpacking much. Just stretched out on the mattress in the back, zipped up my sleeping bag, and within minutes I was gone. After more than ten hours of driving, the hum of the wind outside became the lullaby that carried me into sleep.
Tomorrow, I’d wake up on the Isle of Skye — finally.
Day 2: The Old Man of Storr, The Quiraing and Neist Point
I woke up very early — before sunrise — with the cold air fogging the car windows. My first destination was the Old Man of Storr, one of the most iconic landmarks on Skye. I packed my gear, stretched out my legs, and hit the road straight away.
When I reached the car park, I paid for the ticket, grabbed my camera bag, and started the climb. It was still dim, that magical blue hour before dawn, when the world feels half asleep. On the path, I passed a few other early risers making their way up the mountain.
That’s when I met Wayne — a friendly guy who, to my surprise, turned out to be from Burton-on-Trent. Small world — that’s not far from where I live in Coalville. We had a quick chat, laughed about how strange it was to meet someone from back home this far north, and decided to hike together.
To my surprise, my fitness wasn’t as good as I thought. Wayne, who was older than me, kept a steady, easy pace, while I was already breathing hard halfway up. The trail was steep, the wind biting, and the damp Scottish air made every step feel heavier.
As we climbed higher, the clouds began to gather on the horizon — thick, grey, and stubborn. The chances of a beautiful sunrise looked slim. Still, a small part of me kept hoping the light would break through, even for a minute.
Near the top, we could see the silhouettes of other photographers already set up, tripods lined like sentinels against the skyline, all waiting for that one perfect moment. The sky, however, had other plans. The glow of dawn was faint, buried under layers of cloud.
I stopped for a moment to catch my breath and told Wayne to go ahead without me. He nodded and pressed on, disappearing into the mist. After a short rest, I gathered myself and continued upward — because even without the sunrise, this place demanded to be seen.
When I finally reached the viewpoint where other photographers were already waiting, I turned back toward the path I had just climbed—and there it was. The Old Man of Storr, standing proudly against the cloudy horizon. A view I’ll never forget.
I set up my tripod, adjusted the camera, and put on my waterproof jacket. It wasn’t raining, but the wind was so strong it cut straight through my clothes. The cold didn’t matter, though. I was standing in line with other photographers, all silent, all focused on the same dramatic landscape. In that moment, I felt something incredible—like we were all part of the same unspoken ritual, waiting for the light that might never come.
I took a dozen or so shots, experimenting with different focal lengths, waiting for that one perfect burst of light. But it just wouldn’t come. Some of the photographers who had been standing beside me began packing up, saying there was no chance of a sunny morning shot.
But Wayne looked up and said, “Wait, I can see it clearing just above the clouds.”
And he was right. Moments later, the sun broke through, and the entire landscape was bathed in golden light. That was it—the moment we’d all been waiting for. Even though the sun was already a bit high, the view was breathtaking.
I fired up my camera—click, click, click—the shutter snapping in rhythm with my heartbeat. Each frame felt alive, painted with light and wind. It was pure magic.
After we finished taking photos, Wayne and I had a short chat — just two photographers high on morning light and cold wind. Then we said our goodbyes. Here’s Wayne’s website: [link] — worth checking out; he’s got some solid work.
Before he left, he suggested I visit Staffin Beach, said it was a spot worth seeing. “Yeah, okay,” I replied, smiling — but first, breakfast.
And here’s my little kitchen setup — simple, functional, and perfectly enough for a hungry traveller on the Isle of Skye.
On the way to Staffin Beach, I made a quick stop at Kilt Rock Waterfall. The wind was absolutely brutal. I spent maybe three minutes there, tops. It just wasn’t worth risking the drone; it would’ve ended up somewhere over the Atlantic. So instead, I filmed a short video by my phone, took one last look at the roaring waterfall, and jumped back into the car to continue my journey.
I drove down to Staffin Beach, but when I arrived, the light was quite harsh — the sun was already high, casting strong shadows and washing out the colours. Not ideal for the kind of moody landscape I was after. Since I wanted to make it to Neist Point before sunset and wasn’t sure how long the drive would take, I decided not to waste time setting up the tripod. I snapped a few quick handheld shots, enjoyed the crisp sea breeze for a moment, and jumped back in the car. Days are short in October — no time to waste. Onward to Neist Point.
Driving along the A855, I suddenly found myself winding through the Quiraing — and wow, what a view. Towering cliffs, rugged peaks, and curves of land that looked almost otherworldly. I didn’t even realise I’d be passing through this area so soon; it was supposed to be on my list for another day. The light wasn’t perfect — a bit harsh, a bit flat — but good enough for a few decent snapshots. So I pulled over, parked the car, grabbed my camera, and went for a short walk along the Quiraing trail. Even without perfect light, that place had something special about it.
Next, I pushed on toward Neist Point. Once you leave the main road and turn onto the B884, it becomes a one-way commitment — one road in, one road out, no alternatives. And let me tell you, that stretch is a proper test of your suspension. Potholes everywhere, the kind that make you wince and pray your wheels stay attached. The road is narrow, unpredictable, and feels like it’s been patched together since the dawn of time. A 4×4 SUV would feel right at home there. My Skoda? Well… she took a beating, but she soldiered on like a champ.
Truth be told, most roads on the Isle of Skye are in pretty rough shape — charming in a rugged, Highland way, but not exactly “premium user experience.”
When I finally rolled into the Neist Point car park, I realised I’d made excellent time. No rush, no stress. I had more than enough time to throw together a quick meal and enjoy a hot cuppa before the evening golden hour started teasing the horizon. It was one of those slow, grounded moments — just me, my little car-kitchen, and the anticipation of one of the most iconic sunset spots in Scotland.
So, the weather wasn’t exactly rolling out the red carpet for me. It was cloudy, greyed-out, and the wind was absolutely hammering the coastline — the kind of gusts that make you lean forward and brace like you’re negotiating with nature itself. Any hopes for a golden, cinematic sunset? Gone. Zero. Off the table.
Still, I took the walk around the cliffs, set up the camera for a few shots, and kept my stance low and steady because one strong gust could genuinely push you toward the edge. Neist Point doesn’t play around. But here’s the thing — I wasn’t disappointed for a second. I didn’t come all this way just for photographs. I came to stand in front of this wild Scottish headland, to see the cliffs, the rolling hill that leads down to the tip of Neist Point, and that iconic lighthouse holding its ground against the Atlantic.
This was the kind of moment you tuck into your chest and carry with you. A trip of my life. A place that hits you in the gut in the best possible way.
And honestly?
I loved every minute of it.
After wrapping up my windswept adventure at Neist Point, I pointed the Skoda toward the Fairy Pools — wanting to be already in the area and ready for an early start the next morning. By the time I hit the road, dusk had already settled in, and driving those narrow, pothole-riddled lanes in the dark was… well, let’s call it a character-building exercise. Every few metres I was dodging craters like I was in some off-road rally I never signed up for.
As I got closer to my destination, the next mission began: find a place to sleep. The Fairy Pools car park is strict — no overnight stays — so pulling in there wasn’t an option. I considered just tucking the car onto the side of a quiet road, but thankfully I didn’t have to. A bit further along, tucked away between the trees, I found a small woodland car park, and to my delight, a couple of campervans were already settled in for the night. Perfect. Safety in numbers.
I rolled in, parked up, and breathed a proper sigh of relief. Time for a well-earned evening routine: heat up a simple meal in my little car-kitchen, throw on a film, and get cosy in the sleeping bag. The rain tapped on the roof, the car rocked gently in the wind, and honestly? It felt like a tiny, improvised motorhome — rough around the edges, but absolutely mine.
Lights out.
Goodnight, Isle of Skye.
Day 1 was done. Day 2 was waiting.
Link: Glenbrittle Forest Car Park
Day 2
I woke at 6 am, well before dawn. The sky outside was still pitch black, and the wind had picked up, rattling the trees around me. After a quick morning routine, I drove back to the Fairy Pools car park, ready to explore. Pro tip: the toilets there open only at 9 am, so plan accordingly!
As I stepped out of the car, the wind cut through the still-dark surroundings with an eerie whistle. The mountains loomed as silhouettes, and the only sound louder than the wind was the gushing of the stream. Despite the harsh conditions, I was eager to capture the beauty of the pools and the surrounding waterfalls.
The Trek to the Waterfalls
With my headlamp illuminating the trail, I followed the sound of rushing water, keeping close to the stream. The path was rugged but manageable, and the sheer energy of the flowing water kept me motivated. Slowly, the dawn began to break, casting a soft light over the landscape.
When I finally reached one of the waterfalls I had hoped to photograph, I was met with both awe and disappointment. Thick, low clouds shrouded the Bidean Druim nan Ramh mountains, hiding their peaks. Only the base of Bruach na Frìthe was visible. The wind howled in powerful gusts, so strong at times that it nearly knocked me over.
Determined, I set up my tripod in the water, battling the elements as I framed the perfect shot. The scene was wild, untamed, and mesmerizing. After capturing a few images, I decided to include myself in the composition. With the camera set on a timer, I positioned myself on a stone in the background, striking a pose against the dramatic waterfall.
But then disaster struck. A sudden, forceful gust of wind toppled my camera—my trusty Canon 5D Mark III—straight into the water. Along with it went my Canon EF 16-35mm lens, a new addition to my kit. My heart sank as I watched them disappear beneath the surface.
I acted quickly, pulling the camera out and removing the batteries to prevent further damage. Water poured out as I desperately tried to salvage it. Devastated, I knew there was little I could do in the field. With heavy steps, I began my walk back to the car, mentally replaying the loss of my gear.
Finding Solace in Nature
Despite the setback, I couldn’t help but admire the stream as I retraced my steps. The way the water danced over the rocks, glinting in the early morning light, was a reminder of the power and beauty of nature.
This trip, though marked by challenges, was unforgettable. The Isle of Skye, with its raw, untamed beauty, left an indelible mark on me. Even though I lost my camera and lens that day, the memories and lessons I gained were priceless.
Tip for Travelers: Be prepared for Skye’s unpredictable weather and pack protective gear for your camera equipment. And if you’re planning an early start, remember to scout the area beforehand—it’ll make navigating in the dark much easier.
For more details about what happened to my camera and the recovery process, check out this post.
After that devastating ending at the Fairy Pools, I trudged back to the car park with my heart sitting somewhere near my boots. Losing my Canon 16–35mm felt like someone had punched a hole straight through my photographic soul. That lens was my workhorse, my go-to for landscapes — and watching it disappear into the water was brutal.
Thankfully, I had my second Canon 5D Mark III body waiting in the car, so at least I wasn’t fully out of the game. But still… no 16–35mm. Damn. Standing there dripping with cold water and frustration, I realised my next widest option was a humble 24mm prime. Not ideal for sweeping Scottish vistas — but better than nothing. Much better than nothing. And, to be fair, the 24 has its own charm when you let it breathe.
I didn’t really have a solid plan for what to do next. My original itinerary was basically in shambles, blown apart by wind, clouds, and a rogue lens. So I made a decision: I’d simply stop wherever the landscape called me. No pressure, no expectations. Just drive and react.
All I knew long-term was this:
I wanted to reach Elgol before sunset.
That tiny village at the end of the road, looking out toward the mighty Cuillin Ridge, had been sitting in my mind for months. I wanted to stand there with the sea foam at my feet and the mountains glowing — even if the weather had no intention of giving me the “glowing” part.
So I fired up the engine, took one last look at the brutal Fairy Pools wind tunnel behind me, and rolled out. Every corner, every lay-by, every fleeting moment of light — I told myself I’d stop if something grabbed my attention.
Heart bruised, camera gear lighter, but still fully in the adventure.
On my way toward Elgol, I spotted a sign for Talisker Bay. The name alone had that magnetic pull — rugged, remote, mysterious. I figured, why not, let’s take the detour and see what Skye wants to show me this time.
The road in was long and twisty, and the walk from the parking spot took a bit of commitment, but the payoff? Absolutely worth it. Talisker Bay unfolded in front of me like a moody masterpiece — towering cliffs on both sides, that iconic marbled black-and-white sand under my boots, the Atlantic pounding the shoreline with full Highland attitude.
And then there was the waterfall.
Or should I say… the reverse waterfall.
The wind was so strong that the water wasn’t falling down the cliff — it was being blasted upwards, straight back into the air like the laws of gravity had taken the afternoon off. I just stood there laughing, because honestly, where else do you see a waterfall running backwards? Only in Scotland.
Of course, the weather stayed loyal to its earlier theme: dark clouds, moody atmosphere, wind trying to rip my hood off every three seconds. But Talisker Bay wears that weather like a signature scent. It fits.
I set my tripod down on the slippery stones near the shoreline — carefully, because every single rock there feels like it’s coated in butter. One wrong step and you’re breakdancing for the seagulls. Still, I managed to get close enough to capture the raw power of the place.
Even with the stormy mood, I found myself grinning.
This was the type of wild beauty I came for.
With a memory card a bit fuller and my clothes a bit wetter, I headed back toward the car, ready for the final stretch of the day.
Elgol was still waiting for me.
Clouds or no clouds — I was going.
I continued my journey toward the little village of Elgol, but on the way I couldn’t resist pulling over at one of Skye’s most iconic stops — the Sligachan Old Bridge. Honestly, this place should’ve been at the very top of my Isle of Skye priority list. It’s the kind of location that smacks you in the face with beauty the moment you step out of the car.
I grabbed my camera, zipped up my jacket, and headed straight for the river. The old stone bridge stood there like a postcard from another century, framed by the mighty Cuillin mountains looming in the background. The water rushed beneath it with that classic Highland energy — fast, cold, and crystal clear.
Even though the weather still wasn’t giving me its best behaviour, the atmosphere around Sligachan was pure magic. Moody clouds clung to the tops of the peaks, the wind howled across the open landscape, and everything felt raw and ancient. Exactly the kind of scene that makes you stop, breathe, and just take it in.
I snapped a series of shots — wide frames of the bridge, tighter compositions of the river, a few attempts to capture the moody textures in the sky. And I remember thinking, Yeah… this is Skye. This is what I came here for.
A quick stop, a handful of photographs, and a moment to absorb the scenery — then back to the road.
Elgol was calling, and the day was running out.
Leaving the Sligachan Old Bridge behind, I pushed onward toward Elgol Village — that remote outpost on the southern edge of Skye that feels like you’re driving straight into the very bones of the island. The road twisted through the landscape like a stubborn, ancient trail, and by the time I rolled into Elgol, the sun was already sliding toward the horizon.
Even wrapped in thick layers of cloud, Elgol still hit me with that wow factor. It’s one of those places where you switch off the engine and just sit there for a second, taking in the mountains across the loch, the shoreline, the quiet… well, quiet apart from the wind shouting in your face. But still — magical.
The weather kept playing its same old tune: cloudy, moody, windy, absolutely no interest in giving me that golden sunset I’d been dreaming of. But that’s fine. I didn’t drive all this way to sulk about the light.
I grabbed my camera, zipped up my jacket, and headed straight to that incredible honeycomb cliff — nature’s own architectural masterpiece. Took a few frames, soaked it all in, then made my way down to the rocky beach.
Now, those rocks… let me tell you, they were rough, sharp-edged, and uneven — the kind of stones that remind you to watch your step unless you fancy a twisted ankle as a souvenir. But the moment I reached the shoreline, it all made sense. Waves crashed in like they had somewhere urgent to be, the mountains towered across the water, and the whole place buzzed with that raw Highland energy you can’t bottle or fake.
I set up the camera, let the wind slap me around a bit for character, and fired off a series of shots. No perfect light, no cinematic sunset — but Elgol doesn’t need any of that. It delivers on presence alone.
Even without the glow, the place was unforgettable.
Wild. Unpolished. Honest.
Exactly why I came to Skye.
Day 3 — Into the Quiraing Again
The next morning, I was up before the world even bothered opening its eyes. When I pulled into the Quiraing car park early that morning, I wasn’t alone — two other cars were already there, their owners no doubt chasing the same moody magic of the place. Clouds still glued to the sky, wind still throwing its tantrum. No surprise there.
My plan for the day?
Hit The Prison, climb toward The Needle, and push on to The Table — the classic Quiraing trinity.
As I followed the path, the wind carved its way between the mountains like a ghost whistling through a cathedral. The wind was screaming through the gaps in the mountains, funnelling between the rocks like some wild, unseen creature. That sharp, eerie whistle you feel in your bones. Honestly, it had that horror-movie atmosphere… the kind where you half expect a shadow to sprint across the ridge.
When I approached The Prison, and especially the narrow gap between the Prison and the Needle, the wind cranked the dial to maximum. It wasn’t just strong — it was ferocious. I literally had to grab onto tufts of grass so the wind didn’t blow me off the mountain. That was the moment I realised: this isn’t photography weather, this is “hold on for your life” weather.
Still, I pushed up and climbed right under the Needle itself — that towering spike of rock stabbing at the sky. But from that point… I wasn’t moving any further. The wind was way too powerful. I won’t sugar-coat it — I was scared. Properly scared. One wrong step and it would’ve been a free airborne ticket straight down the slope.
So I stopped, caught my breath, soaked in the madness of the place, and then made the smart call: turn back.
On my way down, halfway to the car park, something unbelievable happened.
The wind just… stopped.
Completely calmed.
And then — rain. Out of nowhere.
Honestly, it felt supernatural. One minute I’m fighting for balance, the next minute nature switches moods like it’s got a meeting to attend. Absolutely incredible. Wild, unpredictable, unforgettable.
When I finally dragged myself back to the car — wind-beaten, soaked, and running on the last fumes of motivation — I threw together a quick breakfast. Nothing gourmet, just tactical nourishment to keep the mission alive. While eating, I checked the weather forecast, hoping for at least a marginal improvement.
No luck. Same deliverables for the next few days: cloud, wind, rain… a full copy-and-paste scenario.
That’s when I made the call. I was tired — properly tired — and with conditions blocking any chance of clean, high-impact shots, it felt like the right moment to pivot and start the journey back to Coalville.
While heading south, I made one last creative stop: Loch Fada. It’s one of the classic vantage points for the Old Man of Storr, and even with the moody weather I couldn’t resist. I pulled over, grabbed the camera, and took a shot of the Storr rising through the gloom. A quick moment, but absolutely worth the detour.
Then I continued down the road — and that’s when I passed the Storr itself. Completely engulfed in heavy cloud, it looked dark, dramatic, almost mythical. One of those scenes where nature goes full Hollywood without asking anyone’s permission.
A bit later I rolled into Portree, the capital of Skye. I strolled through town, grabbed a few souvenirs as “project artifacts”, then pointed the car back toward the mainland — tired, satisfied, and processing the whole wild adventure as the miles ticked away.
Once I crossed the Skye Bridge and started cruising along the A87, something caught my eye — that unmistakable silhouette rising out of the water like a scene from a legend. Eilean Donan Castle. You can’t miss it. Sitting proudly where three sea lochs meet, it’s one of Scotland’s crown jewels. Highlander, James Bond… the whole cinematic résumé. I pulled over, grabbed a few quick shots on my phone — nothing fancy, just instinct — and rolled back onto the road.
From there, the drive felt like nature’s farewell parade. Loch after loch flashing past the windows like moving postcards. Glencoe hit me the hardest — those towering mountains, those brooding slopes, the Three Sisters standing like ancient guardians. Pure drama. And then the long glide along Loch Lomond, with the water stretching out beside me like a calm after the storm. Honestly? Unreal. Scotland doesn’t just show you views, it delivers an experience.
I found a spot not far from Loch Lomond to crash for the night, grabbed some sleep, and the next morning pushed on with the final leg home.
When I finally pulled into Coalville and shut off the engine, I took a breath and did the math.
33 hours spent in the car.
1,349 miles travelled.
No wonder I felt absolutely knackered — but properly happy. The kind of tired that comes with achievement, with adventure, with a story you’ll still be telling years from now.
What a trip. Scotland… you majestic beast.