Superstition is like a magnet.
It pulls you in the direction of your belief.
A more appropriate pseudonym for Moonwatcher, would be
'Peoplewatcher', as he watches the day to day
comings, goings and antics of life on the campsite.
Mothers on their way to the shower block in dressing gowns
and slippers, swatting early morning midges. Back home,
they wouldn't be seen dead, stepping outside their door in
such attire. Grannies, lumpy scarves wound around
curler-festooned hair? Bare-chested, pot-bellied Dads,
emulating their sporting heroes, as they play Wembley and
Wimbledon Finals with foam balls and plastic racquets.
Caravaners arrive and display their reversing skills (or
not!).
Then, there are the 'Super Campers'. After proudly
boasting to workmates and neighbours, that they and the
family are going camping, and creating an the illusion of
'going bush' in the 'Wilds of Scotland', they appear
on site with enough equipment to provide logistical support
for the entire cast and crew of 'Braveheart'! Huge
tents, awnings, support camper-van (just in case it rains),
folding beds, heaters, television with aerials pointing
skyward from the top of the tent, a cooker Delia Smith
could happily live with, fridge, lighting which would be
the envy of a M*A*S*H operating room, enough car batteries
to supply an Apollo Moon Shot, and a mat at the entrance
announcing 'Welcome! Please Wipe Your Feet!'.
The Ranger does his rounds; bike winding in and out between
tents and vans, talking to campers, addressing problems,
discouraging barbeques too near tents or foliage, pointing
out forest-trail routes on maps, and chasing those who had
tried to sneak in at night, then shoot off in the morning
without paying the overnight fee.
Compared to that of The Super Campers, Moonwatcher's camp
is a Spartan affair. His mis-named ridge-tent sags in the
middle due to the absence of a ridge-pole, and slack
guy-ropes. The grisly sheep's skull, complete with curled
horns, stuck on top of the pole over the entrance, sends a
clear message to children, that this is not a good place to
play ball. Adults aren't too keen on approaching
either.
The sleeping bag lies out on the grass, providing a mat to
sit on, while perusing the map and having lunch: cold baked
beans, scooped from a can with a spoon, accompanied by
thick slices of 'SPAM', hacked from a tin, destroyed with
the Swiss Army knife after the wee wire key failed to do
it's its job. A can of Tennents lager washes the meal
down.
The bike leans dormant against the trunk of the oak tree,
it's its wheels having been stationary for the past for a
few days. He absently scratches his arm and tuts,as a
flurry of 'snow' falls over the map. The sunburn has eased
now, and he's been careful to keep covered up and avoid
direct exposure. But the peeling, flaking skin is a
nuisance. A nuisance he can't keep his fingers away from.
Leaning inside the tent flap, he fumbles for the jar of
'Nivea' cream, and starts to slap it over his arms and
legs, while looking up at the sky.
The weather is changing, the heat less fierce, but the sky
has become grey and the atmosphere humid and heavy. People
talk about thunder, but people always talk about thunder.
He lies back, closes his eyes and relives the other day's
walk. A walk he probably would not have done, had it not
been for his conversation with Arthur ...
"Have you been along the Steps of Trool yet?" the older man
had asked.
Moonwatcher shook his head.
"Nope, never been round that side of the loch."
"Should do that one. Gives a good view of the Buchan, and
up by the Gairland."
They were sitting on the back step of the old ambulance,
each with a mug of tea. Earlier, Moonwatcher had approached
the man, as he hooked up a fresh 'Calor-gas' bottle to the
van.
Introducing himself, he expressed his interest in the
vehicle. Two things were guaranteed to get Arthur talking:
The Galloway Hills, and his converted ambulance, so he
invited Moonwatcher inside for a mug of tea.
"You'll see she's a diesel." he enthused, while pouring
boiling water into a teapot. "Not many diesel ambulances
around. And a Glasgow number plate as well!"
As the conversation continued, cupboards were opened and
seats unfolded. Evidence of its previous life was pointed
out, and scrutinised. Moonwatcher was able to explain what
equipment would have fitted where, and how it would have
been used. Arthur was fascinated to find out more about his
camper, and the two sat on the back step drinking their tea
and comparing notes.
From Kilmarnock, Arthur was a tall man in his late
thirties, early forties, balding and bespectacled. Lean and
sinuous, skin bronzed by the sun, the type you could easily
imagine being a marathon runner. It became clear that he
spent much of his time tramping the surrounding hills. His
knowledge and experience was were impressive.
"I use Glentrool as a base." he said matter of factly.
"Here every weekend and holidays."
Grabbing the map, he eagerly opened it out.
"Just returned from a trek over by the Dee, from
Talnotry."
He stabbed his finger at the location of Murray's Monument,
to the south of them.
"Got a lift over to there, and was dropped off. Set out
from the Dam and along the side of Clatteringshaws
Loch."
His finger traced the route.
"Up by Curleywee, stayed at White Laggan bothy for a couple
of nights, and explored from there, before heading past
Loch Dee down to Glenhead, and back here to the
camp."
He finished his account with a firm tap of his finger on
the campsite symbol on the map.
Moonwatcher realised that he was in the presence of someone
worth listening to.
"White Laggan bothy?" he inquired, sipping from the
mug.
"An old shepherd's sheiling, restored by the 'Mountain
Bothies Association'. Well worth a visit and a good place
to stay overnight in the hills."
Moonwatcher made a mental note of the place, for some
future trip.
"Have you heard of a rock outcrop called The Grey Man?" he
asked.
"Certainly have. Seen it many times."
He repositioned the map to focus on the area further north
- the Dungeon area, his finger acting as a pointer once
again.
"Lies below the Merrick on its north-east corner, up near
Loch Enoch."
It was difficult to say who was more surprised: Arthur,
bythe question from this young man, or Moonwatcher for
meeting someone outwith Davie Bell circles, who new knew of
the existence of the face in the rock.
"You've seen it yourself?" asked Arthur.
"Not yet. Plan to set out in the next few of days to find
it."
"Better watch the weather doesn't set in against you.
Forecast's not good."
"Hmm. I'm aware of that." acknowledged Moonwatcher.
"You're a cyclist you say?"
"Yeah."
"So you'll have learned about the face through Davie
Bell?"
Moonwatcher nodded. "Got his book in the tent."
"He was quite a guy, by all accounts." continued Arthur.
"Haven't read the book, but I used to read his articles in
the Ayrshire Post."
"So how difficult is it to find?" asked Moonwatcher, keen
to make the best most of this unexpected resource.
"Which way are you intending going. Up by Culsharg?"
"Well, no. Actually I was ..." He takes a turn at finger
tracing on the map. "I'm planning to go up the side of the
Buchan, then follow the route up to Loch Valley,
Neldricken, and across to Enoch."
"He expected a rebuke for taking such a long circuitous
route, but instead ...
"Ahh! You want to see the 'Murder Hole'." laughed
Arthur.
Moonwatcher smiled. "Yep! Sure would."
"Well, the reeds are certainly there, but there's not much
of a hole to see. Whatever old man Crockett saw before he
wrote the Raiders, seems to have been overgrown since.
Worth a look though. You intending doing it in one
go?"
"No, I'm going to camp up there."
"Camping in the Cauldron eh? That should be an experience.
It'll give you a chance to explore the area though. Mist
will be your biggest problem. Be careful around The Wolf's
Slock, and the edge of Dungeon Hill and Craignaw. It's a
fair drop down to the Silver Flow. Also, look out for plane
wrecks, there's quite a few up there."
Moonwatcher finished his tea, and put the mug down on the
ground beside the step.
"Listen. Thanks Arthur."
"For what?"
"For letting me see inside the ambulance, and for the
advice."
"Anytime. Have you been along the Steps of Trool yet?"
The next day found Moonwatcher on the steep, undulating
path that runs along the south side of Loch Trool. A
clearing in the trees allowed him a view over to the
opposite bank, where the 'Bruce's Stone' stood against the
backdrop of Eschoncan Fell. Cars could be seen at the
distant viewpoint, the occasional camera-flash confirming
the presence of tourists around the monument.
Sitting on a large boulder, he removed a boot and fumbled
inside, for the tiny stone that had been bothering him. He
contemplated events that had occurred here over 700 years
earlier. A battle fought and won by Robert the Bruce, on
these very slopes, the steep side of Mulldonach - 'The
Steps of Trool'.
If Moonwatcher had paid more attention to Scottish history
at school, instead of ogling the pretty history-teacher's
legs, he might have been more familiar with the historical
significance of this area. For good reason, would it come
to be referred to, by some, as 'The Cradle of
Independence'.
March 1307. Glentrool
The Bruce stands on a high point on the north side of
the loch watching intently as the long line of English
foot soldiers pick their way, single file, along the
treacherously narrow path on the opposite side. Obscured
by early morning mist clinging in patches to the
precipitous hillside, and the natural cover of trees, he
can't see them, but reckons, from intelligence sources,
that about fifteen hundred of the Earl of Pembroke's men
are snaking along.
It must be difficult for them. The path is uneven, muddy,
slippery, steep in places, and they're carrying the
accoutrements of open warfare - unsuitable to the
guerrilla tactics, necessary for victory in this wild,
inhospitable land.
He smirks, as he hears the distant clink of metal against
rock, followed by what he could swear was the sound of a
curse, carried on the chill morning air. He almost feels
sorry for them.
'Pembroke must consider himself so smart.' thinks
Bruce. 'Trying to sneak his force up the south side of
the loch.'
Since learning of Bruce's hideaway, at the head of Loch
Trool, Pembroke has been determined to trap his adversary
in his lair; to exterminate Bruce and his band of a few
hundred.
Bruce smiles at the thought. Smiles at the shock awaiting
the Earl and his minions. Gaining intelligence of what
Pembroke was up to, had been a stroke of good fortune.
Good fortune long overdue.
Since donning the crown at Scone the previous year,
nothing seemed to have gone right. A series of defeats
had driven Bruce and his men to seek refuge, down here in
the wilds of Galloway and Carrick. It was a refuge, not
without it's its merits. Principal access to the head of
the loch, was by one route only, on the northern shore.
Any advance by this road could be quickly detected and
acted upon.
The hunting was good, with red deer in abundance. The
tranquillity of the area gave opportunity to reflect,
rebuild resolve and cast aside the spectre of failure.
Like a spider rebuilding it's its destroyed web, Bruce
had re-forged his resolve during his time at
Glentrool.
All he needed now was the opportunity to strike.And,
in choosing to sneak his troops up the loch, by way of
the Steps of Trool, Pembroke had inadvertently given
Bruce that opportunity.
The previous night, under cover of darkness, Bruce had
ordered squads of men to climb to the top of Mulldonach -
the great hill towering over the Steps of Trool. There,
they levered, manoeuvred and rolled as many large
boulders as they could manhandle, lining them along the
edge ready to be pushed off with minimum effort.
As Bruce now stands on the north bank, this spring
morning, he can see the sun glinting on the line of
boulders along Mulldonach's summit, like a hastily
constructed stone wall.
As the soldiers traverse, oblivious to the danger above,
the first indication of trouble is the sound of horns
echoing off the hills surrounding the loch. The signal!
Becoming Suddenly conscious of a rumbling above their
heads, the troops look up to see giant boulders
thundering down towards them, rolling, bouncing,
cannoning off each other. In the ensuing panic it is
clear that there is no defence, or escape.
Men jump, fall, or find themselves pushed off the edge of
the path, seconds before the stones impact. Screams echo
through the hills as hundreds of men fall to their deaths
in the cold waters below, or are crushed and buried by
tons of rock. Those, at the head of the column, escape
the barrage of rocks, only to run into Bruce's men at the
head of the loch; there to be cut down and
slaughtered.
Bruce's victory was decisive. After the Battle of
Glentrool, he moved north. Success followed success, on a
road that led ultimately to another slope, just outside
Stirling. There, a nearby burn would give it's its name
to another battle.
'Bannock Burn'.
As Moonwatcher replaced his boot, and tightened the laces,
his only recollection of the history lesson about Robert
the Bruce, was something about a spider, and that history
teacher's legs.
As his walk continued, he tried to avoid thinking of about
those who died there. The path was rough, narrow, and in
numerous places, steep. He kept an eye on where he was
putting his booted feet, and refrained from looking up to
check for falling boulders.
At one point, his eye caught something white in the
bracken. Closer inspection revealed it to be the bleached
skull of a sheep, that had fallen to it's its death from
the heights above. He picked up the trophy, and fastened it
to the outside of his backpack.
The descent down to, and around the head of the loch, took
him across a marshland known as 'Soldier's Holm', where an
information board informed him that hundreds of bodies,
from the carnage that took place on the Steps of Trool,
were buried beneath his feet. At that thought, he shivered
in the humid afternoon heat.
He rounded the top of the loch, on to its north side, then
climbed the steep path up to the viewpoint, and the
'Bruce's Stone', which he'd seen from across the other side
of the loch, earlier in the day. It had been erected in
1929, to commemorate the battle.
A few tourists were taking pictures as he arrived. He was
familiar with the massive Stone from previous visits, but,
nevertheless liked to read the inscription. The tourists,
having satisfied their need for photographic evidence,
moved away. Stepping up on to the base of the stone, he
read the words ...
ROBERT THE BRUCE, KING OF SCOTS
WHOSE VICTORY IN THIS GLEN OVER
AN ENGLISH FORCE IN MARCH 1307,
OPENED THE CAMPAIGN OF INDEPENDENCE
WHICH HE BROUGHT TO A DECISIVE CLOSE
AT BANNOCKBURN
Moonwatcher is startled awake by the noise of the
'rumbling bridge', as a large continental camper-van
trundles across.
Blinking and rubbing his eyes, he sits up on one elbow, and
looks around. His mind is still full of images of Robert
the Bruce, narrow paths, boulders and battles. It's late
afternoon, and the midges are starting to bite. He swats a
couple on his on his bare forearm, leaving tiny red spots
where they had started to feed.
He soon has the stove on the go, and a brew sends wisps of
steam up into the branches of the overhanging oak. He
lights his pipe and sits contentedly; looking around his
tiny camp.
Tonight he'll pack what he needs into the backpack, leaving
room for the tent and sleeping bag. Everything else, he'll
stow into the bags on the bike. The Ranger has agreed to
stable the bike, and its gear in a shed at the back of the
shop.
Tomorrow, it should a case of striking camp, then heading
out on foot along the road towards the 'Bruce's
Stone'.
From there, he'll take to the hills.
Original story and material © 2005 Bob Wilson
Layout, editing and additional material © Dave Sloan
2005, 2012, 2016
'tachras' and 'Winding Yarn' © Dave Sloan 2005, 2012,
2016
