The old birch woods above the Kyles…
I have had a lovely day today.
It has been a gorgeous warm spring day, and I took a walk in the hills with Andy. We drove over the Cowal Peninsular to Colintraive- around a 20 minuite trip- and walked up through the farm into some lovely high country- broken craggy tops with little walkways and ridges to climb through. We disturbed only the odd sheep, accompanied always by lambs.
The views out over the Kyles of Bute were great- a little hazy, but full of the movement of yachts taking advantage of a favourable wind to fly through behind brightly coloured spinnakers.
We came down through some birch woods, just coming alive. We were surrounded by the noise of brooks and birds, and walked through a carpet of cowslips.
I have wanted to explore these woods for ages. They look so inviting from the road at any time of the year. In the winter they are almost purple-bare, but around the spring time, they start to wear a bright bright green as the buds come through.
A couple of years ago, a woman who was staying at the Colintraive hotel went for a walk somewhere in these parts. She was never seen again, and not a trace of what happened to her has ever been found, despite extensive searches. It must have been incredibly sad and difficult for those she left behind. She kept coming to mind as we walked. It must be incredibly difficult for the loved ones she left behind, but today, it did not seem to me to be such a bad place to have your last resting place. May she rest in peace.
A few years ago I took a little walk in these parts on my way home from work- and wrote a poem. So here it is!
With all the optimism of the early spring
I turned the car from the road home and looked to the hill
Taking the camera more for motivation I head for the high point over the Kyle.
I feel the old excitement in the smell of wild places
All around I can almost hear the soil coming alive
The whisper of the wind in the larches sounds like blood flowing
And, unconcerned as my unsuitable shoes take on water,
I climb through heather and the old years dry grass
Up through ancient Gneiss outcrops
Still holding the shape of their birth in lava poured out in days so distant
That there seems no point calculating.
My feet cut into slow growing mossbanks
And scatter the stalks of bracken
And in the moment, I fear that I bring a human rhythm,
In this place unwelcome, discordant
Drowning out the stillness
Oil on water
I notice blackened heather stalks swept by fire
Perhaps lit by a smouldering cigarette last summer
And remember that this place is everywhere marked by men
Close cropped by the sheep, the land curves towards
The regimented contour crop of Spruce trees in the valley below
And half hidden, there is the evidence of older dwelling places
Now memories in the soil
Barcodes in bracken and dead nettle
Feeding on the residual richness
Leached from these poor houses
Whose people drained away.
Then perspective shifts again
To the far horizons
Across the sparkling Kyle lies Bute
Then beyond, Arran’s hills rise above Lochranza
Still wearing winter white against the blue sky
I stood and gloried.
Awed by things much bigger than I
By creative forces far beyond my understanding
But by Gods grace
Not beyond my reach
Blessing received, I take photographs recording only human spectral light
Then scramble back to shiny car, and head, too fast, for home
Anxious to see my loved ones
Eager for my own slice of civilisation.