Along the forest path ...

I took a walk through Beecraigs Country Park a few weeks back (before the snow fell) and captured a few images of this beautiful forest area.

It must be 45 years or so since I took my first film snaps of this area and, all these years later -despite visiting at least a handful of times each year since - I still find plenty to capture.

#forest #path #beecraigs #westlothian #photography #photographicart #nature #naturephotography #landscape #landscapephotography #scotland

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.

 'O Sole Mio'

This beautiful flower grows in great congregations everywhere in Vilamoura on the Portuguese Algarve.

A stunning little star of joy.

 A Portrait

I'm delighted to say that I've had one of my short stories published in 'Fragmented Voices'.

You can find it here: ‘A Portrait’ by Duncan Bennett – Fragmented Voices

Something different ...

The Alcudian sky is a little overcast this morning; A film of silver-gilt cloud - too bright to peer into for more than a few seconds - offers a little respite from the sun; this time yesterday I was searching our south facing balcony for what little solace was gifted by a meagre shadow cast by the trunk of the palm tree opposite; realigning my chair every few minutes as, throughout the early hours of the day, the Sun climbed higher and higher into a faultless blue sky.

But it’s still hot.

Fortunately, being close to the beach, we’re occasionally visited by twisting wind devils; miniature tornadoes which begin their dance close to shore and pirouette spritely through the sand before exhausting themselves among the fronds of the palm trees and washing limply over the hotel balconies, their welcomed last breaths tugging at drying beach towels and coddling sweat damped flesh.

I close the laptop, push the chair noisily back over the tiles and stand up. My large, lardy ass is beginning to ache from sitting in the same position for so long. Resting my elbows on the balcony rail, I roll my hips a little - this way and that - until blood begins to flow again.

Our balcony overlooks the sea whose placid, blue-turquoise apron laps lazily at the bleached sands just two hundred yards from our building. Between lies the hotel bathing pools around which adults worship the suns gift, while their kids throw themselves into the waters like spilled cannonball’s or head off for chimerical sea adventures on lie-lows they have imagined into great pirate vessels.

Among those poolside holidaymakers, I spot Alex & Jen (a couple we chatted with in the local ‘Hawaii Bar & Restaurant’ a couple of nights ago) weaving their way through the nests of tables and chairs which spiral outwards from the poolside bar. Dressed too formally to blend in easily with the largely unrobed sun worshipers, they make their way towards the hotels beachside exit. They walk slowly, yet purposefully. Alex normally employs a walking stick to support his steps but, today, he holds his wife’s right hand in his left, and carries the cremated remains of his Son in his right, the indistinct, tubular vessel cradled securely in the crook of his arm exactly as he would have cradled his boy as a new-born baby: resolutely, with care, with love. Addy (Adam) had succumbed to the ravages of a brain tumour two months ago, aged fifty. Believing in neither gods nor monsters, and with no family of his own, Addy had asked his parents if his mortal remains could be interned amidst the folding blue waters of the favourite holiday island he had so happily shared with them throughout his formative years.

So, Neptune would receive a prized beneficence today; a simple homage to Addy - offered humbly, given proudly, and charged with a pathos which few, if any, of those who populated the beach could appreciate.

As Alex, Jen and their boy disappeared down steps leading to the beach path, I turn away from the balcony. My aches eased, I once again realign my chair with the palm tree’s shadow and ease my burly backside down onto the unforgiving surface.

June brings a cup of tea.

I open my laptop and continue tapping out words where I left of: “… and, the world over, we’re all doing something different today.”