It's only then that we feel we are entering the
Trossachs, that most beautiful, most uplifting countryside. Here, the terrain
changes dramatically, the straight lines of the road start to lose their practical,
linear course and begin to undulate, almost drunkenly; rolling this way and that
with the rugged topography; circum-navigating steep hillsides where ancient
trees gather in woodland enclaves; skirting deep depressions scooped from the
landscape eons ago by fabled ice-age glaciers.
We wind our way through the quiet communities of Thornhill,
Easter Borland, Ruskie and Blairhoyle, enjoying the act of revisiting these
picturesque communities made familiar to us from many past visits. Then, suddenly,
we’re forced to stop; our next way-marker on the A873 – The Port of Menteith – is
denied us; barricaded by road works. There are a couple of Stirlingshire
Council vans parked across the route, but there are no diversionary signs to
guide us. Google convinces us to turn right onto the A81 and we’re now navigating
an unfamiliar route toward the familiar town of Callander. The route may be
unfamiliar, but it is spectacularly picturesque. We’re now twisting our way
along a radical road which snakes this way and that through the beautiful
forests of The Trossachs National Park: dense, mainly deciduous woodlands populated
by tall, sentinel trees whose boughs have begun to shed their summer dressage: rust-red,
orange, and brown leaves pirouette through the air as they fall idly from the
high canopy to settle amid the thick carpets of fern, gorse, and bracken whose
autumnally burnished red/brown fronds sway bright as flames in the soft breeze
and direct, late afternoon light.
Passing through Callander, we turn left onto the A821 and
find our trail once again shrouded by woodland trees where, deep among their
congregation, shadows of evening climb steadily from the forest floor as the
sun begins its western descent. These are truly wild expanses, and I can only
wonder, enviously, how these haunting lands would have looked when brown bear,
bison, wild boar and baying wolves grazed and hunted through their labyrinth
primeval forests.
We drive on. The dark waters of Loch Venacher gather close to
the road as we roll through Milton of Callander and begin the long ascent to
Brig O’ Turk. There, we navigate around the shores of Loch Achray before
beginning a steep descent South along the Dukes Pass. The silvered waters on
the Western shore of Loch Drunkie are spied – just occasionally - between the
rise and fall of coarsely hewn mountain crests which perfectly illustrate this
beautifully rich Scottish countryside. And, as the car moves steadily through
the landscape, so the dark peaks on the distant horizon seem to rise and fall
as though displaced by the breath of sleeping giants.
The final descent to Aberfoyle is precariously steep and our
grey ribbon of tarmac snakes its way down the wooded precipice in a series of
narrow hairpins. Reaching Aberfoyle town, we decide – against our intuitive
want - not to follow the road along the high street. We’re tired, and it is
getting late. We know we’ll visit again tomorrow; enjoy a wee tipple at the
Forth Inn; perhaps a hot drink and fruit scone at Liz MacGregors wonderfully
aromatic Coffee House. So, we turn instead towards Milton, driving along the
darkening shore of Loch Ard and on to our final destination, the beautifully
appointed Forest Hills Hotel; a favourite and oft visited hostelry which nestles
majestically between the loch and its backdrop of monarchical mountains.
June and I have a week to wend away, and a firm notion to
enjoy it.
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