Winging it in the land of the long-haired cows

updated 3:42 p.m. ET July 18, 2006

KYLEAKIN, Scotland - There is indeed poetry in the geography of the Highlands of Scotland. The country's laureate poet, Robert Burns, etched the literary vision hundreds of years ago:

"My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
"My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
"Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
"My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go."

Lured by that romantic vision, we left New York to follow the seductive sound of the Scottish sirens to the Isle of Skye.

We began our journey with a nonstop flight to Glasgow. Located on the River Clyde, the city was once known for building great ships -- including the Queen Mary and the Royal Yacht Britannia. Today, it is visited more for its shopping.

With another couple who had a similar desire to experience the Highlands, my wife and I spent a short period of adjustment in Glasgow, getting acclimated to the time -- it was mid-June and daylight peeked in early and lasted until after 9 p.m. -- and trying to attune to Scottish accents (we never did), while adjusting to looking first to the right when stepping off the street curb.

Then we rented a car and set off north for the Highlands, stopped on the way at Balloch at the northern end of Loch Lomond, boated the lake and walked a bit on its bonnie banks before settling in at a bed-and-breakfast for the night -- our home of choice wherever we were in the countryside.

While it is wise to make these reservations in advance, we winged it, taking advantage of good fortune and, at times, the helpful information centers that are available in most every town in the country. They not only provide information and souvenirs, but for a small fee (about $6) they will book your accommodations in the area.

The licensed B&Bs start at about $50 per person per day; reasonable hotels are available for about double that. (Figure higher than that during the peak summer tourist season.)

On the road again, bright and early, growing accustomed to driving on the left -- though occasionally killing some weeds on the unfamiliar side -- we headed for Skye, known as the "misty island," just off the coast of the Western Highlands. The roads, though still good, narrowed a bit and became far more curvy as they snaked through the braes (hills) and the bens (mountains).

You can tell you're getting closer to the Highlands when the deer-crossing warnings become alerts for wandering sheep, as the sheep -- their wool often marked with a colorful splotch for identification -- seem to outnumber the people and the cars.

You can spot some of the hirsute Highland cattle, too, with their distinctive long bangs over their eyes, a natural protection developed over centuries to cope with the windswept, rain-soaked habitat.

Road signs were another indication of the Highlands, as they doubled identification of towns and villages with the equivalent name in Gaelic.

There are spectacular vistas at every turn. And there are many turns. Fortunately, there also are numerous lay-bys (a British term for roadside parking) and pull-overs for the requisite photos of one of nature's spectacular shows, with every twist in the road a new act.

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