APPROACHES TO THE TROSSACHS
The route taken by the coaches leaves Callander in a northward
direction, but soon turns off westward down a narrow muddy road
forbidden to motor-cars; this runs beneath the shoulder of Ben Ledi.
Ben Ledi means the Mount of God, and is believed to have been held
sacred from the days when the Beltane mysteries were celebrated on it.
Beltane was a Celtic festival celebrated about May 1 with fires and
dances, and probably with sacrifices too. The scenery, however, is not
as awe-inspiring as these weird memories would lead one to expect—in
fact, for all this first part of the Trossachs’ round the traveller’s
imagination must supply all the fire he needs. For instance, the very
prosaic sluices erected by the Glasgow Water Company at the end of Loch
Vennachar, which soon comes into view, mark the site of Coilantogle
Ford, across which Roderick promised the King a safe-conduct, and where
the two fought with such fury when the outlaw revealed himself.
The chief in silence strode before,
And reach’d that torrent’s sounding shore
Which, daughter of three mighty lakes,
From Vennachar in silver breaks.
The road passes all along the shores of Loch Vennachar, and where at
the end there lies a meadow, embraced on the far side by the Finlas
Water, we are at another classic spot, for this is Lanrick Mead, the
meeting-place of the Macgregor clansmen. We can see very well why
it should have been chosen, for it guards at its narrowest part the
pass, and anyone approaching from the Callander—_i.e._, the Doune
or Stirling direction—would be easily stopped, though it would be
possible for men to come along the south side of Lochs Vennachar
and Achray. The mead also commands the approach from the south via
Aberfoyle, and any body of men coming down the hill on this side would
be full in view. After this we arrive at the Brig o’ Turk, a small
bridge over the Finlas Water. It was close by here, at a few huts
marking Duncraggan, that Malise delivered up the cross to Angus. But
he had done his work well.
The fisherman forsook the strand,
The swarthy smith took dirk and brand;
With changèd cheer the mower blithe
Left in the half-cut swathe the scythe;
The herds without a keeper stray’d,
The plough was in mid-furrow staid,
The falc’ner tossed his hawk away,
The hunter left the stag at bay;
Prompt at the signal of alarms,
Each son of Alpine rush’d to arms.
[Illustration: BRIG O’ TURK AND BEN VENUE.
In the great stag hunt, with which Scott’s poem opens, it was at this
point that “the headmost horseman rode alone.”]
We are now right in the Trossachs proper, and find the huge, palatial
hotel which goes by that name facing little Loch Achray.
Having arrived at the junction of the roads—that is, the two principal
approaches already noted—it is necessary to run over the ground from
Aberfoyle before continuing the part through the Trossachs common to
both routes.
[Sidenote: Aberfoyle]
Aberfoyle itself is full of associations, but they are nearly all
connected with _Rob Roy_. It stands as a meeting-place of Highlands and
Lowlands, and as such has seen many storms. The earlier part of the
Forth, here known as the Laggan, runs past the town, and the old saying
“Forth bridles the wild Highlandman” is full of significance. Of this
district says Mr. Cunninghame Graham: “Nearly every hill and strath has
had its battles between the Grahames and the Macgregors. Highlander
and Lowlander fought in the lonely glens or on the stony hills, or
drank together in the aqua-vitæ houses in the times of their precarious
peace.”
Far the most interesting scene laid at Aberfoyle, in all the realism
of fiction, is that in _Rob Roy_, when Bailie Nicol Jarvie, and young
Osbaldistone arrived, wearied out, seeking shelter at the primitive
Clachan, and were refused because “three Hieland shentlemens” wanted
the place to themselves. The landlady said her house was taken up “wi’
them wadna like to be intruded on wi’ strangers,” an objection for
which there was probably strong underlying reason!
The row that subsequently took place when the stout little Bailie
defended himself with the red-hot coulter of a plough is too well known
to need quotation. Suffice it to say, in evidence of the truth of the
story, that a coulter, traditionally said to be the very weapon, hangs
on a tree outside the hotel, which bears his name, to this very day.
[Illustration: IN THE HEART OF THE TROSSACHS.]
[Sidenote: The Pass of Aberfoyle]
The pass which leads by Lochs Ard and Chon north-westward to
Stronachlachar has been much used at all times, and has seen desperate
forays, but none perhaps more desperate than that described in _Rob
Roy_ when the Bailie and Osbaldistone, unwillingly setting forth up it
with an escort of soldiery, were attacked from the heights above by
the redoubtable Helen Macgregor and her men, and very narrowly escaped
death. Scott thus describes the pass:
“Our route, though leading toward the lake, had hitherto been so much
shaded by wood that we only from time to time obtained a glimpse of
that beautiful sheet of water. But the road now suddenly emerged from
the forest ground, and, winding close by the margin of the loch,
afforded us a full view of its spacious mirror, which now, the breeze
having totally subsided, reflected in still magnificence the high dark
heathy mountains, huge grey rocks and shaggy banks, by which it is
encircled. The hills now sank on its margin so closely, and were so
broken and precipitous, as to afford no passage except just upon the
narrow line of the track which we occupied and which was overhung with
rocks, from which we might have been destroyed merely by rolling down
stones, without much possibility of offering resistance. Add to this
that as the road winded round every promontory and bay which indented
the lake, there was rarely a possibility of seeing a hundred yards
before us.”
It was when the party had reached a spot where the path rose in zigzags
and made its slippery way across the face of a steep slaty cliff that
they suddenly discovered they were in an ambuscade under the command
of Helen Macgregor herself. The desperate fight that followed, all in
favour of the outlaws who commanded the situation; the ludicrous plight
of the fat little Bailie, who, caught by the back of the coat on a
projecting thorn-bush, swung in mid-air, “where he dangled not unlike
the sign of the Golden Fleece over the door of a mercer in the Trongate
of his native city”—are not these things writ in the ever-enduring
pages of _Rob Roy_? More awful was the doom of Morris the Gauger, or
Exciseman, who was dragged out, condemned as a spy, and drowned by the
aid of a large stone bound in a plaid about his neck. “Half naked and
thus manacled, they hurled him into the lake, there about twelve feet
deep, with a loud halloo of vindictive triumph, above which, however,
his last death shriek, the yell of mortal agony, was distinctly heard.”
The lake thus woven into the tale is supposed to be Loch Ard. The Falls
of Ledard, at the north-western end, are the falls described by Scott
in _Waverley_, as he himself has owned, though it must be confessed in
so doing he lifted them from their setting. Flora MacIvor’s song—
There is mist on the mountain and night on the vale,
But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael
—is descriptive of this scenery.
[Sidenote: “Rebels and Mossers”]
But the Pass of Aberfoyle has scenes of real history to tell as well as
those of fiction. General Monk led his men through it after addressing
a letter to the Earl of Airth, desiring him to have the woods in
certain districts of Aberfoyle cut down, because they were “grete
shelters to the rebels and mossers.”
In the pass, also, the Earl of Glencairn and Graham of Duchray defeated
some of the Cromwellian soldiers, and, adds Mr. Cunninghame Graham in
recounting the incident, “Graham of Duchray no doubt fought all the
better because the Cromwellians had burnt his house the night before
the action, in order to show him that it was unwise to attach too much
importance to mere houses built with hands.”
Aberfoyle is supposed to be peculiarly haunted by the “little
folk”—_i.e._, the fairies—a reputation it gained from a
seventeenth-century minister, who was supposed to be in league with
them. He is frequently mentioned by Scott, and the fairy knowe,
opposite the hotel, on which he sank down dead, called back to the
fairyland he loved so well, is still pointed out. He,
When the roaring Garry ran
Red with the life-blood of Dundee,
When coats were turning, crowns were falling,
Wandered along his valley still,
And heard their mystic voices calling
From fairy knowe and haunted hill.
[Sidenote: Lake of Menteith]
Not less interesting than the west side is the country lying east of
Aberfoyle, where, at about an equal distance, is the lake of Menteith.
As significant of the wildness of the place in bygone days, we may
note that one Earl of Menteith declared war against “all but the kinge
and those of the name of Grahame.” Menteith was from earliest times one
of the five great districts into which Scotland was divided. The Earls
of Menteith (Grahams) were ever at feud with the warlike Macgregors,
and, as often happens, the feuds raged worst just on the borders of the
Highlands, where men might attack and retreat in safety, knowing every
track which led into their wild fastnesses.
The lake of Menteith is about two miles by one, and it is curious to
note this is the only _lake_ in Scotland. On it is an island, where
the Earls had their residence. Another island, called Inchmahone, is,
however, more interesting still. The word means “Isle of Rest,” and
such it was found by the monks who lived here in ages long gone past.
Ruins are left, a moulded doorway, a fine monument, to tell of their
occupation, but “gone are the Augustinian monks who built the stately
island church. Out of the ruined chancel grows a plane-tree, which is
almost ripe. In the branches rooks have built their nests, and make as
cheerful matins as perhaps the monks themselves. The giant chestnuts,
grown, as tradition says, from chestnuts brought from Rome, are all
stag-headed. Ospreys used to build in them in the memory of those still
living. Gone are the ‘Riders of Menteith’ (if they ever existed); the
ruggers and the reivers are at one with those they harried. The Grahams
and Macgregors, the spearmen and the jackmen, the hunters and the
hawkers, the livers by their spurs, the luckless Earls of Menteith and
their retainers, are buried and forgotten, and the tourist cracks his
biscuit and his jest over their tombs” (Cunninghame Graham).
The “Riders of Menteith” are spoken of in history, but whether, as Mr.
Graham asks, they were mortal riders or a sort of _Walküren_, sacred to
the Valhalla of the district, history does not enlighten us.
[Sidenote: The Four Maries]
Queen Mary, as a little girl of five, was brought to the island of
Inchmahone after the Battle of Pinkie, and lived here for a whole year,
until she went to France to be betrothed to the Dauphin. Her childish
dreams beneath the great chestnuts can have contained no shadow of the
stormy life and fearful end that awaited her. She was even at that time
accompanied by the “four Maries” who attended on her, one of whom,
Mary Hamilton, met the tragic fate of execution.
Last nicht there were four Maries,
This nicht there’ll be but three:
There was Mary Beaton and Mary Seaton,
And Mary Carmichael and me.
The road from Aberfoyle to the Trossachs rises very steeply past some
slate-quarries. As we rise the hills come into view—Ben Ledi and Ben
Venue, with Ben Lomond dominating all the landscape; Ben Voil peeping
over Ben Lawers; and on the clearest days, far in the distance, Ben
Nevis, Schiehallion, and many others. Far below to the right lies Loch
Drunkie, and much nearer the desolate little tarn called Loch Reoichte,
which signifies “frozen,” and this among them all for desolate beauty
stands first. Close by the road is a drinking-fountain, called “Rob
Roy’s Well,” where the tourist is invited to slake his thirst, though
the real well, to which the tradition attaches, is away from the road,
above the slate-quarries on Craig Vadh. On the ridge of this same Craig
Vadh, by the way, are curious cairns, covering the spot where the
bodies of those slain in a Border foray were found. When the road at
length descends we have the pleasing duty of paying an impost, or toll,
for the use of it—and by no means a low one either—and thus we come
to Loch Achray and the Trossachs Hotel, and pick up the thread where it
was dropped.