Strathbrock Parish Church

 It's almost two years, now, since I took the camera for a walk around this little church which lies nestled in the heart of Broxburn, West Lothian.

I've passed the church entrance way loads of times over the years; always noting it with a quick glance as I drove by. Then, having newly retired from work, and with a little time on my hands, I decided to visit.

It's a small Church: robust and staunch looking in its square frame stonework. The doors were locked and there was no one around - there were a couple of cars in the car park, but they may have been dog walkers who had journeyed further on.

The graveyard is very extensive for a small church. One of the graves is marked for a David Hamilton who was laid to rest in 1773. The church building has, I believe, gone through a few constructions - possibly having its beginnings in a wooden building in the 7th Century. The first stone church in the parish dates back to the 12th Century.

Its well worth a visit.

Trossachs

Leaving Livingston via Broxburn and the Ecclesmachan Road, we drive Northwest on the M9 until, with the Wallace Monument dominating the landscape beyond the line of the River Forth, we turn onto the A84 and tack Northwest through Ochtertyre. The road traces an efficiently straight line through the small communities of Nyadd and Blair Drummond before trending North towards Doune. But we leave the main road, turning left again to follow the road to Thornhill.

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.