Read Online Season in Strathglass by John; Fowler - Free Book Online
Authors: John; Fowler
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the district. Kyle, who manages the fishing on the Hill Lochs, lives there. If he's out on the loch today he'll get wet. The windscreen wipers are swishing.
Today I explore, being in search of a place out west called Cougie, which has passed into legend. The way some people talk you'd think it was the end of the world.
George at Upper Glassburn has directed me to take a âscenicâ route, which means tackling a steep muddy track through Plodda woods â Land Rover terrain, gouged and bouldered, which George no doubt takes at a lick on his postie run. George has many irons in the fire including delivering the post part-time and, for two days in the week, he drives a wee red van along the strath and up and down two glens with élan. But for me it's an obstacle course.
I emerge at last on the forestry road that leads to Cougie where the road surface is better but not much.
Sprays of muddy liquid squish from the wheels as I dodge the potholes. Some miles on, at a bend in the river at the forest edge, I reach an odd jumble of buildings â a low timber chalet, a cottage and a shed or two. I'm not impressed. This dreich weather does the place no favours â until I meet Val whose cheery greeting brightens the day.
Val is the chatelaine at Cougie, a large lady with frisking hair who talks with a hint of Welsh in her accent. She invites me to sit with her on the veranda with the rain dripping on the plastic canopy over our heads. Hens pick about in the ground in front of us â these unconcerned birds are survivors. âA pine marten got six of them the other night,â she says.
Birds flit by. âGoldcrests,â she says. âWe get a lot of bullfinches some years. Some years they strip the cherry tree and there's no blossom next spring.â
Val runs part of the long chalet as a hostel for walkers. Trekkers walking between the west coast and Affric often arrive on her doorstep. A name board on a door with the letters scored into the wood means nothing to me. Gaelic? In fact it's Arabic, inscribed there when her daughter lived with a Moroccan partner. The inscription seems less exotic and romantic when you know that it translates as wooden hut.
Returning, I take the back road from Cannich to Struy alongside the River Glass. Fishermen stand like statues thigh-high in its dark waters. A herd of Sheena's cattle, black and red, are grazing on its low-lying meadows.
Sheena is the daughter of Iain Thomson, a man of many talents who has turned his hand to writing. He's been a cattle farmer and, before that, he was a shepherd at Strathmore at the head of Loch Monar in the far reaches of Glen Strathfarrar. He wrote a fine book about his experiences there and, since then, has published others. I pass the old caravan parked by farm buildings where he writes. It's a tubby little vehicle, elderly, a bit the worse for wear and looks as if it could accommodate two at a squeeze. He's writing a novel now.
Near Struy, I stop at a two-storey timber house where, leaning on the five-bar gate at the top of the drive, I chat with Tim. Tim's an ecologist and woodland consultant. I first met him when he was warden at Beinn Eighe Nature Reserve in the north-west Highlands. He says he loved the job but got fed up with the increasing bureaucracy. He was lucky to find this place â he bought 13 acres across the river from Struy, built the house and now he has his own young cattle to fulfil a long-held ambition. Somewhat incongruously for a man of green credentials, he's a sports car enthusiast. When he was young, he and his brother used to race souped-up Austin 7s. He's moved on since then. Parked at the side of the house are a 4x4, a mud-spattered Jag and a vintage Porsche under wraps.
25
George's home at Upper Glassburn is a rambling two-storey house with gabled windows in the roof and a porch framed by rustic columns made from pine trunks. The house stands high above a sharp bend in the road between Cannich and
Today I explore, being in search of a place out west called Cougie, which has passed into legend. The way some people talk you'd think it was the end of the world.
George at Upper Glassburn has directed me to take a âscenicâ route, which means tackling a steep muddy track through Plodda woods â Land Rover terrain, gouged and bouldered, which George no doubt takes at a lick on his postie run. George has many irons in the fire including delivering the post part-time and, for two days in the week, he drives a wee red van along the strath and up and down two glens with élan. But for me it's an obstacle course.
I emerge at last on the forestry road that leads to Cougie where the road surface is better but not much.
Sprays of muddy liquid squish from the wheels as I dodge the potholes. Some miles on, at a bend in the river at the forest edge, I reach an odd jumble of buildings â a low timber chalet, a cottage and a shed or two. I'm not impressed. This dreich weather does the place no favours â until I meet Val whose cheery greeting brightens the day.
Val is the chatelaine at Cougie, a large lady with frisking hair who talks with a hint of Welsh in her accent. She invites me to sit with her on the veranda with the rain dripping on the plastic canopy over our heads. Hens pick about in the ground in front of us â these unconcerned birds are survivors. âA pine marten got six of them the other night,â she says.
Birds flit by. âGoldcrests,â she says. âWe get a lot of bullfinches some years. Some years they strip the cherry tree and there's no blossom next spring.â
Val runs part of the long chalet as a hostel for walkers. Trekkers walking between the west coast and Affric often arrive on her doorstep. A name board on a door with the letters scored into the wood means nothing to me. Gaelic? In fact it's Arabic, inscribed there when her daughter lived with a Moroccan partner. The inscription seems less exotic and romantic when you know that it translates as wooden hut.
Returning, I take the back road from Cannich to Struy alongside the River Glass. Fishermen stand like statues thigh-high in its dark waters. A herd of Sheena's cattle, black and red, are grazing on its low-lying meadows.
Sheena is the daughter of Iain Thomson, a man of many talents who has turned his hand to writing. He's been a cattle farmer and, before that, he was a shepherd at Strathmore at the head of Loch Monar in the far reaches of Glen Strathfarrar. He wrote a fine book about his experiences there and, since then, has published others. I pass the old caravan parked by farm buildings where he writes. It's a tubby little vehicle, elderly, a bit the worse for wear and looks as if it could accommodate two at a squeeze. He's writing a novel now.
Near Struy, I stop at a two-storey timber house where, leaning on the five-bar gate at the top of the drive, I chat with Tim. Tim's an ecologist and woodland consultant. I first met him when he was warden at Beinn Eighe Nature Reserve in the north-west Highlands. He says he loved the job but got fed up with the increasing bureaucracy. He was lucky to find this place â he bought 13 acres across the river from Struy, built the house and now he has his own young cattle to fulfil a long-held ambition. Somewhat incongruously for a man of green credentials, he's a sports car enthusiast. When he was young, he and his brother used to race souped-up Austin 7s. He's moved on since then. Parked at the side of the house are a 4x4, a mud-spattered Jag and a vintage Porsche under wraps.
25
George's home at Upper Glassburn is a rambling two-storey house with gabled windows in the roof and a porch framed by rustic columns made from pine trunks. The house stands high above a sharp bend in the road between Cannich and
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