For me and my true love shall ne'er meet again...
On the bonny, bonny banks of Loch Lomond.
We spent Sunday in the town of Balloch, against the shores of Loch Lomond. Truly in all the time we've been here, in all the majestic buildings and awesome museums, along quiet, poplar lined lanes, amidst the fields ever green, with the cobbled streets guarded by colorful pipers, never have I seen anything as beautiful as the Loch and its serene forests.
Really, I suppose, the entire weekend was one culmination of beauty, building and collecting through many small impressions over a few days. Friday brought us to the stunning lands of Pollock Park, with sweeping green fields and furry Highland "Coos", architecturally breathtaking homes of lords, and collections of art as varied and whimsical as any group of students with diverse interests could ask. On Saturday, while walking along the grounds of our own Pollock Halls of Residence, the lonely sounds of a single piper atop Arthur's Seat whispered among the courtyards and the world became still. People stopped walking, birds stopped singing, even the wind stilled, and that dirge, so simple and honest and plain, spoke of time and land and people and tradition and love vanished but remembered. I do not know why the piper stood on those hills and played, Flora and Michelle later told me they thought it might be a memorial ceremony (they came upon him up on the Seat as he began piping) and others thought it in tribute to the great Football game between Scotland and England that day. I think he was playing for the joy and fulfillment and personal tribute that musicians can offer in their own small, solo ways.
Sunday found us on the shores of that beautiful Loch. I took too many pictures, suffering for the sly jabs of others, not to try and photograph what I can't hope to capture in a mere picture. Maybe in one picture alone I can't capture the feeling, and in a collection of pictures I can only tell part of a story, but my strength has always been my writing, and perhaps I can capture the rest in here.
Lomond is a Loch for the romantic. Loch Ness captivates those with a taste of adventure and mystery, those who hunt Big Foot at home hunt Nessie here. Lomond brings together the majestic soaring beauty of the Highlands and the more tranquil, serene lowlands, as it lays over the boundary of the Highland Fault. The Loch is freshwater, and the largest such Loch in Scotland, 24 miles long, 5 miles wide, and as much as 600 feet deep. There are 38 islands, many of which are inhabited year round, and most of which house tourists at least part of the year. There are castles, and ruins of them, everywhere. The Loch saw much sadness amongst the clansmen surrounding it, the Macgregors (disbanded as the Logan clan was) met their final fate here. But this is easy information, found by a simple websearch or in a tourist book (In this case, the internet: http://www.loch-lomond.net) .
The water is so crisp and cold it would be clear, if the wind did not stir it up into soft chops. The waves run alongst the shore in diagonal lines, breaking against the soft, black sand with a whispered cry. The trees, a fascinating mix of piney and leafy, grow right up to the water, and the mountains rear up majestic on the north shores. The wind skips along the chops, sharp and teasing, enticing sailboats out onto open water. The woods grow close together, the branches of ancient treest twisting and twining together reaching for sunlight. The ground grows in odd collections of hills and ditches, some filled with old leaves and some with dark water, some with curious little crawlies and some with squirrels.
As for today, the sun was shining when I began to write. Out of nowhere, snow began, the flakes so wet and heavy I could hear them hitting against the roof below my window. In the time it takes to write about, the sky remains clear and blue, the grass shines in the impossible rich green-ness of the British Isles, the flowers are still watching the sky, defiant of snow. But the snow is still falling, accumulating in the ground in little piles, as if to imitate the fields of snowdrops. The flakes whirl and dance in a reel-- even the snow here knows of Scotland's traditions. This is the magic hollywood snow again, thick and beautiful from the moisture of the sea, falling because high up clouds are cold, and dancing because the air on the earth far below is warm. And still the world is so green! And now, its gone, as if it was never here. The piles on the ground have vanished, the sun breaks through the treebranches in shining rays, and the air is now purified, so to cast the world as it is in early dawn or just before sunset, when everything is so very clear that the tiniest leaves of ivy are perfect, individual blades of grass are recognized, the shadows of clouds waver even alongst the thinnest tree branches, and I remember that this is how I used to see the world, this perfect clarity so sharp it nearly hurts, all the time. |
