I was starkly reminded today of a place in Stirlingshire (Scotland) with a small statute of William Wallace... The Scots really can’t stand this replica of William, since it seems to be the exact opposite of the physically huge and admirable legend he was.
Stirling never became much more to me than a stopping place either to fill up the car, buy MacDonalds & coffee or change over at the bus station. Similar to Fort William which heads right up the Highlands (up my street too) and past the famous and often snow-clad Ben Nevis.
Another time perhaps, I'll chat about a place called Newton and the barracks, where a real dog owns a real pub...
BT wrote beautifully on his blog, about a much treasured railway track: The Kyle- Inverness Track. He must have made a dozen more travels on this breathtaking route than me... The few times I traversed up and down, it never failed to take my breath away too.
I’d share my sandwiches and even my last bottle of homemade wine with someone willing to swop places and change seats for me…
I’d give my birthright to be seated next to a small window on the Kyle train, raindrop or sticky- smeared, and to be looking out into a world unknown to the majority of people to walk this earth.
I so not want to copy TB's melancholy, but my thoughts kept returning to small islands, the cries of buzzards, myths and and water-edged smoky villages all day long. I can't finish this day without trying at least, to put this into some words or such.
I'd like to leave my footprints, small or faint, in the crystal frost amongst the thicket of bog and myrtle, wave at the ever so wild but curios deer, trace my fingers along the edges of wild mushrooms and ferns and the ever evasive far gone times. I want to close my eyes and see that last crimson sunset fade behind lush pine trees and hills, as the train pulls away from Kyle and Inverness to travel further and further from my heart's desire.
The track between Kyle of Lochalsh (beautiful name, eh?) and Inverness (capital of the Highlands) are craddled between high mountains and deep ravines...Stopping or passing places are named Plockton, Dingwall, Loch Carron which makes me want to write music...Passing small lonely croft housies surrounded by nothing but tracks and eerily moody mountain slopes...
I would turn to stone and die if that was the requirement to find a foothold and resting place...just there. In that place between misty isles and hazy summer dreams.
I'd like to trace back on each step that took me further and further away...from there.