Torphichen

[smokingboot]

I needed the exercise. There and back was just about an 8 mile walk, probably shorter once I know how to cut across the hills, but I wanted to get the lay of the land from the road first of all. I was tempted a few times down mysterious lanes or towards the woods, but my phone didn't have enough charge to make these viable and besides, I wanted to see the Preceptory.

A friend once intimated that she didn't see the surrounding land as 'real' Scotland. While I understood her vision, I had to point out that William Wallace held his parliament running Scotland from the Preceptory, where tourism info indicates just how Scottish the area is.



Alas, despite the website saying otherwise, the Preceptory was shut! But the true adventurer is not daunted by such things, and finding one door closed, cheerfully rattles open another. I went to the accompanying graveyard only for my eyes to alight on this:


Not a gravestone...




Turns out it's a small menhir used as another of the sanctuary stones denoting land belonging to the Hospitallers. Prior to their settling here, it may have served perhaps as a baptismal font by St Ninian, who was said to founded this parish around 400 AD, and before that it was carved with cup marks in Neolithic times. It seems there are Celtic carvings on one side, but I couldn't make them out. Some say it came from nearby Cairnpapple, but no-one knows. It outlasted bronze agers * saints, and knights alike and now stands quiet amid the dead in this graveyard where the yews and beeches grow tall, and the birdsong is very sweet.

I then went to the pub.

The Torphichen Inn's pretty jolly; I wanted to see the 'wee shop' it boasted within, for it said something about local crafts. Didn't find the shop but did discover a fantastic mural on the walls depicting scenes from Tam O' Shanter, and some bemused locals. They were very friendly and told me all about the artist living just up the road who, having lost his job as a political cartoonist, created the piece and included some of them in his art. One pointed himself out to me proudly as the Devil, because he plays the pipes as does Auld Horny in the mural. Apparently some of them helped 'fill in' various areas of paint. They said there'd be a singer in that night, and I was tempted but wanted to get back. The light grew long and golden all the way, and I had the added charm of hearing far off bagpipes across the hills. I could hardly believe it but there it was, faint but definite. I was passing Bishopbrae Farm at the time, and I suppose there could have been someone there practising; but I prefer to believe it's faery, calling, always calling. After all, whatever they say about the devil and his bagpipes, what would he be doing out on such an afternoon?

* I know, I know. But what else do you call them?