Hello everyone! We have had the most extraordinary contrast in the last week, ranging from a world class chamber concert in a castle hosted by the "Lord of the Isles" to a perfect anchorage surrounded by high peaks with nothing ashore except a backpackers' hut. The first occurred in Loch Dunvegan on the northwest corner of the Isle of Skye, the second in Loch Scavaig on the southwest corner, where we are now. This anchorage lies in a basin encircled on three sides by the Black Cullins, jagged, black peaks from 2,500 to 3,000 feet high. We are nestled behind a large island connected to land by a drying patch at low tide - the entrance to this snug little anchorage between the west end of the island and a drying rock might be 50 feet wide. Behind us, the walls are almost sheer consisting of dark gray to black rock jutting up at an oblique angle and separated by green flows of coarse grass and heather. As I write this, I can hear the cascade which tumbles down a narrow ravine behind us, twisting and turning in a gulch carved over eons, sometimes almost doubling back on itself. Above the ridge from which the waterfall tumbles, the highest peaks of the Cullins can be seen when the clouds recede. These are jagged, black pinnacles which stand stark against the blue sky, their peaks seeming to grow out of ancient falls of scree.

A path from the small, grassy meadow at the head of the harbor leads over a shoulder of black boulders and flat slabs of rock along a wide, shallow stream which twists and tumbles for a half mile where it exits from a long valley. In this lies an inland loch only ten feet above sea level completely encircled by peaks and ridges and surrounded by heather, grass and wildflowers in an alpine-like meadow. Almost two miles away, at the head of the valley, the mighty Black Cullins rise sheer from the valley floor in a wide curve which forms a stunning backdrop to this isolated loch. Here we are enjoying the grandeur and awesome beauty of wilderness despite the popularity of the anchorage - we have to share it with two other boats this evening!

Our experience in Loch Dunvegan on Saturday night lay in the cultural, rather than the natural, sphere. We attended a chamber concert in the Castle Dunvegan, the longest continually occupied castle in Scotland, being inhabited by the Clan MacLeod for seven hundred years. The current Clan Chief, John MacLeod, is the 29th in his line. He has kept his ancestral home at least in part by bowing to necessity and opening the castle to tourism. Outside the castle grounds lie three gift shops and a restaurant. But in giving up some of his culture, he has not become uncultured. He hosts the summer series of chamber music mostly for the benefit of himself and his family, with internationally renowned artists who (so we surmise) spend part of their summer at the castle as a sort of working holiday. A few tickets are sold to these performances, and those who attend are treated as the personal guests of the Clan Chief for the evening.

When we passed through the massive front doors into the medieval entrance hall, John MacLeod himself stood on the bottom step of the wide, red-carpeted ceremonial staircase to greet us. Our host wore a white dress shirt, cummerbund and black tuxedo trousers. His most distinguishing feature was a magnificent mane of predominantly white hair though a few black hairs still lingered. He welcomed us to his home and directed us to the drawing room. This turned out to be an intimate rectangular room about the size of a large living room with fifteen-foot high white ceilings, salmon colored walls and hardwood floors with red runner rugs along the traffic areas. The walls were decorated with a variety of oil paintings of various sizes, clan members from different centuries. Four crystal chandeliers hung from bas relief friezes worked into the otherwise smooth plaster of the ceiling.

A Steinway Grand piano sat to the left as we entered, the cover propped open with books with carved leather bindings. Beyond that, chairs were lined up in neat rows in two sections with a red-carpeted aisle down the middle. The front row consisted of a mismatched assortment of plump armchairs, mostly in shades of pink. Straight-backed chairs with cushioned seats made up the rest of the rows, with seating for perhaps 25 or 30 people. As the audience filed in, we became aware that many were regulars who greeted one another warmly and commented on the weather, their health or their particular attire for the evening. Six of us had come ashore from boats anchored off the castle. Another half dozen seemed to be tourists who'd seen the advertising that day. The rest were MacLeods or family of the musicians, including several children, who claimed the comfortable armchairs in the front row.

The performance was fantastic. The first half consisted of a song set sung by the Chief's son, Stephan MacLeod, and accompanied on the piano by Kathryn Goodson. The songs were French and German by DuParc, Wolfe and Fouré, all romantic songs of unrequited love and endless suffering including, among others Claire de Lune. I had half expected a venue for a good but not superbly talented son to make use of for the summer months. But the minute the pianist started to play, I knew how wrong I was. And when Stephan MacLeod's whole body crumbled as if wounded and his face became a mask of pain before the first words even left his lips, I knew we were in for an exquisite performance.

And so it was. Stephan MacLeod has a rich baritone voice with enough power to command the piano even at its most energetic. He sang with an absolute passion, his face and body and gestures communicating the very essence of the words and music, the soul of it. The second half of the program was Frank's piano quintet, the piano and the string quartet, called the Turner Quartet after the painter. With Stephan MacLeod turning the pages for Kathryn Goodson, six nationalities were represented - the two violinists were Columbian and Sardinian, the violist French, the cellist Dutch, Kathryn Goodson American (originally trained at Oberlin Conservatory) and Stephan MacLeod, of course, Scottish. All of the performers, including the MacLeod son, are internationally renowned, having trained in Paris and Cologne and Amsterdam. They all have busy performance and recording schedules, and have played with symphony orchestras of most major cities in Europe. To be privileged to see such fabulous performers in a salon setting where we could experience every expression and watch every gesture can hardly be described.

The most extraordinary thing, as Stephan MacLeod sang, was the uncanny resemblance between him and the portrait on the wall just behind him. The man in the portrait had the same long, thin nose, the same well-formed ear, the same black hair and dark eyes, the same full cheeks and thin mouth. He even had his head cocked at a slight angle and was looking slightly down his nose in a pose Stephan quite naturally assumed time and time again as he sang. The portrait could literally have been painted the day before using this 30th generation MacLeod as a model. Yet the man in the portrait was dressed in Napoleon Bonaparte's clothing, and even had one hand suspiciously close to the buttons of his tunic. At the interval (where we were served coffee and biscuits in the formal dining room) I had a look at the plaque on the painting. He turned out to be the 23rd Clan Chief, from sometime in the mid-1800s.

What a magical evening! We'd been made to feel as if we'd been handed down from a Coach and Four to attend an artistic soiree as the personal guests of the Clan Chief of the Castle Dunvegan. After the performance ended, I half expected them to roll back the carpets and start the waltz and minuet. Our host again saw us out personally, where the setting sun had turned the islands and the skerries in the loch a deep blue while sending sheets of flame across the calm waters where Hawk sat at anchor.

Rarely have we so appreciated our great good fortune...

Here's to where cruising can take you! Beth and Evans