Day 8: Sheepskins, seafood & a rainy day in Skye

It’s Day 8 of the trip, and the wild weather has well and truly settled in. Wind howled through the caravan like it was auditioning for a ghost story, while the heater kept us warm and toasty. Honestly, I could have stayed cocooned in bed next to Loch Leathan all day, but the promise of seafood and snug woolly wares coaxed me out.

Views of Loch Leathan from the cosy warm bed.

I’d been quietly hunting down rainy-day treasures, something a little different from the usual distillery-castle loop. What I found was a delightful combo: Skyeskyns, Scotland’s only sheepskin tannery, followed by lunch at the Stein Inn, the oldest inn on Skye (est. 1790). Bonus: they were right near each other in Waternish, on the quieter, more rugged side of the island. I made a midday booking and, after pitching it to RaRa, we declared the day’s mission officially underway.

Breakfast was scotch broth by Loch Leathan—because nothing says “cosy camper life” like soup. When RaRa surfaced, we toasted the morning with a cheeky whisky (because holidays), while Lark inhaled her broth like a true Highland lass.

She’s added a few new party tricks to her repertoire:

• What sound does a cat make? Meow.

• What sound does a lion make? Roooaar.

• What sound does a dog make? Sniff, sniff, sniff—less bark, more detective work.

But the crowd favourite still reigns supreme:
What sound does Daddy’s stinky bottom make?
Cue: the world’s most enthusiastic raspberry.

We hit the road (when legal to drive) with plenty of time to explore before our seafood feast. Every time we passed a bus heading to Portree, we’d yell out, “It’s not too late. Turn around—don’t do it!”

The drive took just under an hour. Unfortunately, we couldn’t avoid passing through Portree, but were rewarded with rain-speckled hills and a fresh stretch of countryside we hadn’t yet explored. Our first challenge? Parking the campervan. We pulled off a reasonably graceful stop in a makeshift spot that didn’t block traffic (we hope).

Our home-on-wheels parked in a makeshift spot at SkyeSkyns.

Skyeskyns, Waternish – sheepskin heaven & yurt café magic

Skyeskyns was peak pastoral chic—stark white walls, grey thatched roof, black trim—all set against misty hills straight out of a Highland movie. Inside the tannery were skins of every texture and colour, neatly stacked near working machinery and a video display.

The workshop at SkyeSkyns in Waternish.

We climbed the narrow black stairs up to the shop, pausing to take in the grounds below. Inside? Pure Vogue Country Living spread. Knitted jumpers, woolly hats, earmuffs, cushions, throw rugs. You name it, it was there. I mentally furnished our future country house with half the shop—until the exchange rate reminded me to calm my farm.

Everything was pristine and snuggle-worthy, so we kept a tight leash on Lark, who was determined to “give everything loves.” We did the classic toddler shuffle, and eventually I bailed with her downstairs to the yurt café—YURTea & Coffee—while RaRa stayed to browse.

Whoever thought of putting a yurt café in the front yard is an absolute genius. Wooden tables lined the circular perimeter, sheepskin-covered chairs in soft tones of brown, grey, and white. Even the sugar cube bowl had a fluffy coaster. Lark tucked herself into a cosy seat and coloured happily with pencils from a nearby basket.

It had all the hallmarks of a family-run business done right: love-first, commerce-a-close-second. Unlike the big-brand distilleries, this place felt curated, considered, and personal. And let’s talk beverages. They had chai, matcha, even turmeric lattes—with almond milk. A hot drink haven for non-coffee drinkers like me. RaRa, Lark and I split a scone with raspberry jam and clotted cream. Glorious.

Eventually, Lark’s patience expired, and we packed up for our next stop. We didn’t need Google Maps to find it—the Stein Inn was already visible from the road above when we drove into Waternish, thanks to its giant black “INN” painted on a stark white wall. Subtlety, be damned.

Stein Inn – seafood, sass & sweet pea antics

Built in 1790, the Stein Inn has seen some things. But stepping inside, it wasn’t the dusty, trinket-filled time capsule I expected. The decor was bold and cheeky—think vibrant oranges, pinks, and the occasional pop of turquoise. Some tables looked like they were once sewing tables, positioning companions close enough to lean in and share gossip without raising your voice. Though, give it a few dark ales and I bet the place gets deliciously rowdy.

From the window, the sea stretched out in tones of silver. Mist clung to the hills, boats bobbed gently outside—clearly well-used, if the seafood menu was anything to go by.

The Stein Inn dining room on a rainy day.

The haddock & crab cheese fondue starter was, without exaggeration, life-changing. Bubbling, rich, ridiculously indulgent. Like my taste buds had exploded into a technicolour dream. I’d go back for that alone.

RaRa couldn’t resist the big pot of mussels (I tried them—still not my thing, sorry Scotland). I chose the langoustines: uniquely Scottish, somewhere between a prawn and a lobster, with tough shells, big claws, and the sweetest, most rewarding meat. Shell crackers and a crab fork were non-negotiable.

It’s as if a prawn had a torrid love affair with a lobster and babies happened.

Lark, ever the chaos queen, dipped her skin-on chips into every available sauce, then did laps of the bar like a toddler Robin Hood. Hiding in nooks, peeking into the kitchen, pushing on the men’s toilet door—standard. At one point, I heard a tourist coo in the loudest American accent, “Sweet pea,” and smiled. I’ll never get tired of seeing people’s faces soften as she runs by, eyes crinkled in amusement.

As a lifelong people-watcher, I couldn’t help but eavesdrop on the bar’s background theatre. An American tourist asked:

“Do you serve beer here?”
Bartender: “If we didn’t, we’d be a pretty rubbish bar.”

Then there was the posh English gent who sounded like he’d just left Parliament:

Him: “I’d like a Zero Lager Shandy. Pint of. Tennents.”
His equally posh English companion: “Well, that sounds very complicated.”

The Zinger Olympics were well and truly underway—and the Stein Inn was bringing home gold.

We left feeling richer—spiritually, emotionally, and possibly cheesily—even if the exchange rate had bumped the bill from pub lunch into fine dining territory. We braved the wind and rain back to the campervan, cheeks pink, bellies full.

Warm inside, we hit the road again.
Next stop: Fort William.