In love

[smokingboot]

...and not getting over it any time soon.

I never ever want to forget this holiday. I could fill this page with adjectives and still never convey how beautiful Scotland is, so instead I will just jot down the moments I remember most vividly, and without thought to interest or consistency.



The tumbledry chickens lurking around our door. The lack of sound-proofing in the log cabins. Glengarry Castle porridge.
A tiny red gem of a wild strawberry. Otters and pinemartens. Coos. Many many coos.




The great glen. Lochs and mountains and mist. Woods and waterfalls. The winds over Loch Ness and rambling roses at Castle Urquehart. The view from Aonach Mor.




The Suenos stone and a story told but never explained, intrigues me even yet. One theory is that this dark age carved cartoon strip depicts an epic head-chopping battle between locals and a monarch, King Dubh. Now, as far as I know, dubh is gaelic for black, so this is almost certainly an early depiction of local jedi fighting off the dark lord. Couldn't see Yoda. I like to think his head might have been among those bobbing under the bridge.





I would have expected Rob Roy's grave to mean nothing to me - as far as I know I have no links to the MacGregor - and yet it touched me. People have left fresh flowers for him. I have seen this twice before, both in Rome, once at the tomb of the artist Raphael and then at the supposed grave of Julius Caesar. It moved me.

Of more current interest was the revelation that this was not only an site ancient and holy to pagans and christians alike, but the stomping ground of Robert Kirk, author of 'The Secret Commonwealth,' a definitive treatise on fairy lore written in the 17th century. I am very interested in his work, and it was a strange and happy circumstance that brought me to his old parish. Mr Kirk was buried up the road in Aberfoyle, though those in the know will tell you that the dead body found was not his, but a stock, a specific kind of rudimentary doppleganger often left by the fay to replace those they take. He lives to this day in the underground realms among those he wrote about so copiously. Or so they say.




As our picnic on the cairngorms revealed, the local coos are loud and opinionated, the midges mean every bite and the land is beautiful. A late afternoon song ended with a roebuck leaping out of a thicket towards me. He came so close, and then ran off into the undergrowth, while the evening breathed of heather and the light grew gold and made long shadows all around us.





Skye is Forever Skye.

And on Skye, we rode heavy horses along the beach and through the woods accompanied by a mad and delightfully happy dog. Yours truly was sat upon a huge white clydesdale (named 'Clyde' of course). He was so patient with me lumping around like a sack of potatoes on his back. Heavy horses are very comfortable to ride, and these ones were gentle, without being dull trotting automatons - though November Girl was definitely riding the horse with the most personality, shall we say.





But even this paled in comparison to Findhorn.

I had wanted to go there since I was a kid and read about the Findhorn Foundation working with divas and angels and fairies. A magic place I thought.

Magic indeed. I never got near the foundation. Instead, we went to the beach, and that which I seek behind all the folk tales and fairy stories was immanent in clouds, in sunlight and the wide open sea. Then, we had guests. Heads bobbing up out of the water, checking us out, coming in close to shore a few feet away. Seals and the sunset and the tide coming in and my heart going out.

Everything else I have seen bid me stay and be comfortable and happy. That sight made me wonder what there was to stay for. Why not come out to the sea instead, and explore islands unseen, and lands beyond and never come home? Why not go into the clouds and the light, and over the water? For those who know her, the pure Miranda in my soul was ecstatic.



And now we are back, the day is warm and bright and the house is happy to see us. This is nice. If I have to return anywhere, it might as well be here. This is a sweet and good home.

But I remember and vow to return and think that there is always tomorrow and the new horizon.

Scotland is awe.

P.S. Have you spotted the new LJ trick I have finally learned?

Comments

[smokingboot.livejournal.com]

That would be cool. Cheers!