The Wanderings of an Englishman

“They grow wild, you know” chuckled the grizzled old man, a pipe in his hand and a mischievous glint in his eye. “Oot there. In the hills.”

I gazed in the direction of his outstretched arm, towards the mountains. Impossibly steep slopes tumbled into the ice cold waters of the Loch, their craggy vastness humbling all that came to bathe in their majesty.

I squinted as I scanned the distant shore, determined to uncover any hint or sign of movement in this vast wilderness.

All was still in the early evening twilight. A gentle breeze toyed with our senses, dancing with our hair and carrying with it the sweet scent of heather on pine. Barely a ripple disturbed the lake’s surface as speckles of light glinted and gleamed.

I turned to my newly acquired companion in defeat, a hint of a smile dancing on his lips as he saw my resignation. “Aye, laddy, they’re not easy to see and make no mistake aboot that.” He took a deep, long pull on the pipe, the glowing red-fire embers reflecting in his eyes.

I watched this curious man as he puffed, his head a patch of wild white hair and face scarred deep with crevasses like the mountains that had always been home. There was something almost whimsical about him, impish even, like some spirit come to play games with a weary traveller.

My walk here had been a long one, a slow trudge along indistinct paths of mud and rock. But this was a special place, a cacophony of riotous beauty providing ample reward for my troubles. I had come in search of unfettered and unashamed exquisiteness and I‘d found it. I felt lucky to be here.

And now, at my final destination, I sat with a wild man of the hills and drank tea as he smoked. I had completed my pilgrimage and here, at journey’s end, I would receive his profound wisdom.

“In fact”, said the man after a time of quiet reflection, “their legs are different lengths so that they can walk in the mountains. Only in the same direction, of course. It dinnae work if they try the other way.”

He turned and stared into my eyes, searching deeply right into my soul. And then laughter, great big booming laughter that thundered across the valley and echoed in the vastness. I couldn’t help but join in.

He got up and turned towards the door of the hut, a delicious warm smell wafting over us as he prised it open. “Come on laddy,” he grinned, his smile no longer hidden. “Let’s have some haggis. Freshly caught of course.”

And it was then that I knew I’d finally found the true essence of Scotland.