The weather is beautiful here today. When I wakened a golden sunlight filled the room, defying the frost that lay upon the grass. Late winters’ white frosty mantle has receded lately and the early shoots of a promised spring are there to be seen by those who seek. Where before we could expect a white shroud to still lie upon the grass, now it resembles a crocheted christening robe, waiting to be parted to show new life to old cynics.
Taking advantage of the early Spring weather I went walking, stretching out compacted limbs, siezed up by the weekend's inactivity. The long walk through the Rosewell, just behind Maryton, is like a walk back in time. Back to narrow roads, built when the horse was king and the motorcar caused a stir as it coughed and spluttered its way on the highways and byways like a bronchial dragon. It is a place of dry-stane dykes and beech hedges, maintaining a wild life in its nooks and crannies and under the cover of its long grass verges that is in danger of disappearing. Walking o'er the brae from the auld slaughter hoose the peewits were crying 'murder polis' to the sky.
Leaving the main road, the carriageway very quickly narrows and the last of the houses fall behind. From here on in, only single cottages will be seen; cottages inhabited by modern day Robinson Crusoes, searching for the isolated experience, within reach of the luxuries of the day. Dark green blackcurrant bushes fall over the fencing and hedging, pretty, pink rosebud nipples just showing along their length testifying to the dark feast that is to come.
Standing still, listening to the silent sounds of the quiet day, I imagine these bare branches bedecked in late spring with their seven-leaf briar rose. Closing my eyes, I can smell the sweet heady air of the rose. High, high above me, a lark sings in celebration of the bounty to come. In autumn, I may return here to pick the black, black gold to fill our jam- jar treasure chests.
Standing still, listening to the silent sounds of the quiet day, I imagine these bare branches bedecked in late spring with their seven-leaf briar rose. Closing my eyes, I can smell the sweet heady air of the rose. High, high above me, a lark sings in celebration of the bounty to come. In autumn, I may return here to pick the black, black gold to fill our jam- jar treasure chests.
The road drops quickly towards the tree well at the bottom of the lane, undulating with the natural lie of the land. Approaching a burn at the bottom of one of the dips, I am cheered by the sound of running water as it cascades over grey, cold stone. Repairs are being carried out to the wee bridge where the concrete spars have succumbed to old age. I sympathise with them! Although the road is meant to be closed the workmen let me pass, arranging a series of planks over the water to keep my feet dry. Knights of the road, old style!
Throughout this walk, the landscape is primarily agricultural. There is a mixture of tilled and fallow fields and between them stand stately, tall oak trees, their branches dividing the fields like referees in a wrestling match. The heady, dank, mushroom smell of freshly tilled earth permeates the air around me.
Throughout this walk, the landscape is primarily agricultural. There is a mixture of tilled and fallow fields and between them stand stately, tall oak trees, their branches dividing the fields like referees in a wrestling match. The heady, dank, mushroom smell of freshly tilled earth permeates the air around me.
As the road evens out at the bottom of the well, I enjoy my moment in the early Spring sun. Sitting beneath a spread of oak trees, the wind soughs through the branches beating the time with a sound like the rattle of dead bones. The lark continues to sing soprano, to the winds tenor, accompanied by the deep bass of the tree branches. In the nearby field, a flotilla of oystercatchers braves the swell of a newly ploughed field. As they rise and fall across the waves of the frozen brown sea, they resemble the yachts on a sailing weekend at Cowes. Their black bodies outlining the yacht super structure, white breasts a billowing sail and incandescent orange beaks a life jacket to hold to when life gets rough. Above the verges of the lane, a single sparrow hawk hovers effortlessly in the blue sky, a still moment before the explosive movement of the dance of death.
At the mains of Balindarg I stopped by the bridge to listen to the secret murmurings of the Gairie Burn, carrying tales aboot a' them folk up the glens. On the banks of the burn, crowds of snowdrops, their white slash cutting the dark brown leaves, nod their heads in agreement, knowing from old the queer things that happen in the dark nights in the lee o' the hills. Bright, butter-like globulets catch my eye and I see that the yellow is on the broom and we all know what that will mean for some of the loons and quinnes o' Brechin?
Early Spring Flowering
At the road end, I turn right for the slow walk out to Redwell Farm. On my right the tips of the three hills holding sentinel over Kirrie: Cat Law, Peak Shank and Long Goat, peek over the rising fields to watch my pilgrim's progress. Another right turn on to the Muir of Drumshade or Cabbylatch road and another slow stretch between field and forest. The peace and quiet of the day is fractured by the noise and bedlam that is the saw mill. Another day I might have taken the time to watch the processes that take the giants of the forest and reduce them to something matchsticks but it is too noisy! Today is a day for quiet contemplation.
Going ove the crossroads just below Wester Logie, I met a Scottish Government magician who turns computer code into money for the puir wee fermers. His magic wand (a GPS system) strapped on his back and linked to a laptop computer hanging (perhaps embedded) to his chest, measures the size of 'field margins', which determines the size of grant allocated to them by the EU. He works a five day week, four in the field (literally) and one in the office. No bad work if you can get it.
Going ove the crossroads just below Wester Logie, I met a Scottish Government magician who turns computer code into money for the puir wee fermers. His magic wand (a GPS system) strapped on his back and linked to a laptop computer hanging (perhaps embedded) to his chest, measures the size of 'field margins', which determines the size of grant allocated to them by the EU. He works a five day week, four in the field (literally) and one in the office. No bad work if you can get it.
Shortly after meeting the magician, I turned north to head past Auchindorie Farm, where my old neebor was a ploo'man at one time. This was in the days of the shire horses and his tales of a life on the land and in the bothy were always a delight to hear.
To the east, the snowy hill tops behind Memus and Noranside light up the horizon. Up and over the hill to reach the next up and over the hill, walking between the spooky trees that line the link road between Westmuir and Loch of Kinnordy. I passed by the Westmuir community woodlands where I could hear on the wind the squeals and shrieks of young children playing. Nice to know bairnies are still allowed to do that! Just before Kinnordy the heilan' coos are chewing the cud and having their own contemplative experience.
To the east, the snowy hill tops behind Memus and Noranside light up the horizon. Up and over the hill to reach the next up and over the hill, walking between the spooky trees that line the link road between Westmuir and Loch of Kinnordy. I passed by the Westmuir community woodlands where I could hear on the wind the squeals and shrieks of young children playing. Nice to know bairnies are still allowed to do that! Just before Kinnordy the heilan' coos are chewing the cud and having their own contemplative experience.
Heilan Coos
Leaving the Kingoldrum road, it is a joy to enter in to the bird sanctuary calm that is Kinnordy Loch. The trills, quacks and coughs of the different birds dart along hidden ley lines to envelop the sanctuary in foreign languages. The sounds hover over the trees and burrow under the grass to be your constant companion in the otherwise sepulchral silence. The smell of the damp, dank leaves and the newly turned and manured earth of the nearby fields is a heady scent. Heading for Kirriemuir along the isolated public pathway, walking through the archway of trees, one is walking in natures' cathedral and it is a fitting and spiritual end to a peaceful day.
Images of Kinnordy