|
The strains of the tune 'Jerusalem' evoke the legend which I came across at Glastonbury last year - that Joseph of Arimathea visited these shores of the West Country, possibly with the boy Jesus. It was supposed that they left a tangible lasting legacy, that of the Holy Thorn, which blossoms to this day within the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey, the source of which was Joseph's staff as he plunged it into the earth. It was in similar sceptical vein that I approached another fanciful legend, a momentous series of incidents told in the Bible, surrounding a man whose origins were in Fortingall in the Highlands of Scotland. I took advantage of an invitation by friends to join them in a 'time-share' villa on the banks of Loch Rannoch in Perthshire. Whilst there I engaged in my usual sightseeing activities such as: a walk to the Falls of Bruar, a spectacular series of waterfalls and cascades on the estate of the Duke of Atholl. One is permitted to admire the variety of beautiful scenes of nature on a specially constructed trail taking over an hour to negotiate. a visit to Bell's Distillery at Pitlochry where I derived (for research purposes only you understand) much information about the making of the Blair Athol single malt scotch whisky and was obliged to sample some of the liquor (over 12 years' old). Undoubtedly it was not difficult to pronounce the whisky to be perfectly satisfactory, and so I bought some! a tour of the 'Heathergems' factory where I discovered, to my astonishment, that gemstones were made out of compressed and dyed heather. The labour-intensive process made remarkably fine multicoloured jewellery, sometimes set in deer antlers, sometimes in silver, and always quite beautiful. A trek to the 'Road to the Isles' following the route suggested by the song... "sure by Tummel and Loch Rannoch and Lochaber I will go...", having had to follow the snowplough to Rannoch Station, where the metalled road peters out and the path begins. a cycle ride all the way round Loch Rannoch, to see the meeting places of the warring clans - the Stewarts, the Menzies, the MacDougals, the Robertsons, the Camerons, and others, who in their turn were hunted by the Redcoats at Georgetown at the Bridge of Gaur. A local outlaw called Black Duncan had secretly monitored the troop movements without personal discovery for months. The route, together with a slight detour round the village of Kinloch Rannoch is 26 miles 'and a bit' - precisely the distance of the marathon, for which purpose it was used quite recently.
Schiehallion from Loch Rannoch In endeavouring to utilise my short time in the Highlands to the full, I also went part-way up Schiehallion - the fairy mountain, pyramidal in shape - and did some tobogganning on its lower slopes. Further, I engaged in some watercolour painting and did the scene of the mountain (one of the Monros - peaks over 3000 feet) from the sides of Loch Rannoch. On visiting Glen Lyon, a few miles distant I chanced upon a natural object, possibly the most ancient tree in Europe. Now walled and railed in to prevent further damage and mutilation, the notice asserted that the tree was 5000 years old and the reader was invited to ponder on the momentous happenings which have occurred each millennium since that time, including the birth and ministry of Christ. Upon further investigation I discovered that the nearby village of Fortingall was the site of an ancient hill fort and also of a Roman encampment. The name Fortingall means 'fortress of the strangers' and it is likely that a garrison was stationed in these distant parts, the better to defend the vast Roman empire. The legend here is that a child born at the encampment to a local woman and a Roman soldier was sent to Rome as a slave. He was in the care of a patrician family called Ponti. With diligence, competence and hard-work he secured his freedom, enabling him to wear the freed-slave's cap - the Pilatus. Eventually, through the Roman equivalent of the Civil Service, he worked his way up to become Governor of a Middle Eastern Province. His name? Pontius Pilate! Of such stuff are dreams made on. The following day I noticed that the weather was fast closing in and determined to make a dash for home. The scenes on the road were truly MacBethian - 'so fair and foul a day I have not seen...' and I found that the Forth Bridge was closed to traffic. Blizzards of snow were widespread, lorries and cars were blown over and there were many traffic accidents blocking routes. I was fortunate to get over Kincardine Bridge in a snowstorm and eventually navigated the M9 and M6 southwards. After I had left Cumbria I found that the police had closed these motorways. It was with tremendous relief that I got home to the soft climate of the deep south of this enchanted isle. Never again will I complain of the Hampshire climate - it is just perfect in comparison with the hard, rugged and desolate, but beautiful Scottish Highlands. ROD DAWSON |
|
page last updated 27 AUGUST 2002 |
