Highland Adventures

The bus driver is a short man, bald, in a kilt, and every inch intimidating. He threatens that the tour bus will leave without you if you don't return on time. We heed his word.
The bus tour did not cover the entrance fee to Sterling castle, and at this point of my journey, I have to make a choice between castle tours or food. So I wander away from the castle grounds. A sign at the gate of the old, small church nearby reads: Kirk graveyard.

As I pass the ancient tombstones, weathered by time, I notice something... No one has left flowers for their loved ones here, (or perhaps even they have passed away) and yet the rolling earth has looked after the dead with beautiful blossoms of wild daisies, blue-bells, forget-me-nots and daffodils. I see them scattered about in untamed beauty.

I come across a small green rise with a tree and some steps. My skin prickles beneath my spring coat. I stop. The steps are charmingly situated, with dew drops sparkling in the sunlight, and I cannot resist the beckoning invitation to climb them. Puppet strings pull at my feet. My heart is racing, or shaking; I can't tell. Perhaps I read too much of Tolkien, Lewis and Rowling, but maybe, just maybe, those steps were once ruins of a long-forgotten magic…I climb them.

I find a bench on a rocky rise that forms a small cliff and along with me sits a dial with directions like that of a compass, and a map of the surrounding area on its face. The view is stunning from up here. The whole of the graveyard is laid out before me.

The castle, the breath-taking Scottish fields and forests surround me from all directions. I can see all the hues of the earth; the fresh green pastures dotted with white spring lambs; the intertwining of young and old fir trees nestled on at the foot of the mountains; the ochre-yellow flowers crawling up the side of the hills; and the blue sky all around, accompanied by clouds that leave their shadows, like dark wet patches, on the land. Here I am all alone, and all is still around me, but for the wind rustling the long, unkept grass. I sit on the bench in awe of this sacred peace.

The dial stands as a reminder of the passing time. I leave the cliff, wistfully, with its spellbinding view behind, and I descend those old steps. I pause and glance back, my mind hoping to see what my eyes cannot. The tingling sensation trickles behind me as I pass the church and walk back through the gate. The driver is waiting, so we board the bus and return to Edinburgh.