THE rain drummed on the roof of the car as if the ghosts of Buddy Rich and Keith Moon were having a competition. I was sitting in a small car park at the foot of Doune Hill near Aberfoyle and the weather had hit as I had come down from the Duke’s Pass. Autumn was just beginning to erupt and the precipitation was intense but intermittent so I was able to appreciate the feast of colours offered by the forests around me.
But as I sat in the car and the downpour hit me like it was something personal, I did wonder if I really needed to climb this hill. It wasn’t that it was such a steep climb, as a hill it’s more of a bump, but I really didn’t relish getting wet. Yes, I know wimp.
But in the end, dedication to my craft forced me to don my wet weather gear, shoulder my camera bag and set out through the monsoon. I soon regretted the decision for the water streamed down my back and breached the integrity of my boots, which began to screech like a mouse having multiple orgasms. Not that I know what that sounds like, it has to be said. I have to really think hard to remember what any kind of orgasm sounds like. However, I pressed on, feeling like an extra in ‘Waterworld’, consoling myself with the thought that I couldn’t get any wetter. Granted, it wasn’t much of a consolation but in such circumstances I’ll tell myself anything.
The story I was in search of concerned one Robert Kirk, a seventh son which, according to highland lore, put him in touch with all sorts of supernatural odds and ends. He was minister of Balquidder for a time but it was while he was preaching at Aberfoyle that he wrote a book of folklore called The Secret Commonwealth, or to use its catchy subtitle:
“an essay of the Nature and Actions of Subterranean (and, for the most part) Invisible People heretofor going under the name of Elves, Faunes and Fairies, or the lyke among the Low country Scots, as they are described by those who have the SECOND SIGHT: and now, to occasion further inquiry, collected and compared, by a Circumspect Inquirier residing among the Scottish-Irish in Scotland.”
Yeah, let’s see that spine out in a bookshop.
In Scottish folklore, the fairy folk are called the Sidthe, pronounced Shee, and are often found congregating on hills or mountains. As in ‘Shee’ll be coming Round the Mountain When Shee Comes.’ However, around Aberfoyle, it seems, they are known as the Sithe. As I type, Star Wars fanboys are suddenly alert and slipping some more Ever Readies into their light sabres.
According to legend, Kirk gave away so many of their secrets that they punished him by stealing his spirit and locking it away forever in a large tree at the top of Doune Hill, also known as Dun Sithean, or Fairy Knowe. So now you knowe why I was there.
The Fairy Tree
His body was found, though, and buried in the old churchyard, which lies between the hill and Aberfoyle. However, the vengeful Sidthe took his earthly remains, too, replacing it with a “stock”, which was not something to flavour chicken but was, in fact, a sort of fairy doppelganger. As I splashed towards the foot of the hill I wished they had imprisoned him in a tree further down. But that’s fairies for you, no consideration.
Just before I diverted from the wide path to make my ascent I saw a sign that the area was a training ground for huskies and wished a team would happen by and give me a pull. As I could hear no tell-tale jingle of harness or cries of mush, I stepped onto the narrow dirt track and began to wade upstream. Battling against the elements made the climb seem longer than it actually was but finally I made it to the top and just as I reached the clearing on the summit, a miracle occurred – the rain stopped and the sun came out, its rays streaming through the branches to create a vista that would’ve given Ridley Scott more orgasms than that mouse in my boot. The giant tree before me, in the centre of a small clearing, was dappled by the sunbeams – and all around it, dangling from twigs and branches, were hundreds of rags and streams of coloured paper, fluttering gently in the breeze.
Each of them carried a wish, left there by visitors asking the Sidthe to grant it. I studied some of them and realised that not all were from children, for some were obviously adult in sentiment. People wished for promises to be kept and their own dreams to be answered. A couple also wanted world peace, so were obviously left by beauty queens.
But here’s a funny thing (it’s about time, I hear you say). I had a small tape recorder with me. I’d checked it in the car before I left and it worked. Later, I checked it again and it was fine but there, on that hill, in the shadow of the Fairy Tree with those wishes quivering around me, it point-blank refused to operate. So, either the rain had got to it – or there was something spooky at work there. If I listened I could hear someone whistling The X Files theme tune. Maybe it was me.
I spent some time there, for there was an incredible feeling of peace on this spot, even if Robert Kirk was perhaps banging away from the inside of the tree and trying to make a trunk call.
His grave can still be seen in the ruined kirkyard. I had photographs of it, taken many years ago along with the shots you see here, but they have managed to hide themselves in my collection. Or they’ve been stolen, by something not of this world.
There’s that X Files whistle again…
On my way back down I met a young couple on their way up with their son, who couldn’t have been any more than five.
“Hello,” he said as I stepped off the path to let them past.
“Hello yourself,” I replied.
“It’s very muddy,” he opined.
“That it is,” I said, but was actually thinking ‘No Shit, Sherlock’.
His father smiled wanly and asked how far it was to the top. I told him not far then passed them by before turning again and shouting after them, “But it’s worth it!”