Season in Strathglass Read Free Page B

same. He's called Geordie. His rag-fleeced sheep crop the grass around the cottage and the neighbours complain when they stray beyond. Gardens are sacrosanct.
    Further on, past the shinty park, are the modern bungalows of ‘Little England’, an unofficial name where, no doubt, few of the residents speak with a good Scots accent. Not that it matters – incomers or not, we're all Jock Tamson's bairns, aren't we? Among the pine trees stands Marydale Church and Sister Petra Clare's solitary quarters, silent and still, peaceful as should be.
    A puddly road leads to the caravans and my temporary quarters. I turn in, thinking that this place begins to feel like home. I could live here – well, for a little while at least. On the other hand, I'm not country and I suspect I'd find it hard to adjust. I wave to Matt who runs the site with amiable efficiency. An incomer from the south, he has seamlessly integrated into the community – obviously no problem for him. Little England? Pah!

8
    I find Finlay Macrae at home in Dingwall.
    It's 30 years after his meeting with Tom Weir in Affric. The inky beard is turning to grey. Tweed breeches knotted above sturdy calves. On the table lies a box with a set of bagpipes – he's a great piper. Affric pinewood has echoed to his tunes. When a new forestry office was to be built at Dingwall, he had the plans changed so there was room in the corridor for him to pace up and down while he practised.
    A Skye man, Finlay was reluctant to leave the west coast when his job took him to Easter Ross. ‘The bottom fell out of my world,’ he says. But that was before he found Glen Affric. ‘When I first saw Affric, the colour was on the birch and it was a wonderland.’
    Finlay became a conservationist when it wasn't orthodox forestry to protect the Caledonian pinewoods.
    He got to know the wildlife.

    Birds you get in Affric are the pinewood specialists, the caper [capercaillie], the crested tit, Scottish crossbill. The wryneck has been seen. Also associated waders, the red and black-throated diver, the osprey. Siskin and redpoll, they all add to the variety. And the moorland birds, greenshank, golden plover, the dotterel and the ptarmigan, both of which are found only above two thousand feet. The ring ouzel can be heard.
    The two best times to see Affric are in May with a little snow on the tops and fresh growth on the birch shading into the deep green of the pine, and in autumn when all the colours are showing. In the days before good communications I would just disappear into the forest.

    Finlay tells me that once when he and a colleague had taken a boat up Loch Mullardoch and were walking along the rough ground on the south side, they came on a set of bare bones bleached white – the skeleton of a horse picked clean. When he told this to an old forester later, the man said, ‘That would be Jimmy.’ Those were the days when horses did the heavy hauling. The forester was working with Jimmy the Clydesdale when the horse slipped and broke a leg. They had to leave him lying and next morning they went back and shot him.

9
    â€˜You've come at the right time,’ says Sister Petra Clare. ‘I've just put the kettle on.’
    A place is laid on the plain deal table, with a water jug and a glass. Sister lives frugally. We have coffee and she offers dry bread from a bowl.
    Her face is pale, the skin translucent and a little waxy like alabaster, which suggests too much time spent indoors. A web of tiny wrinkles fans from the corners of her eyes when she smiles. A girlish smile. She wears a light blue top over a white smock. Under the skirts, I notice thick grey socks and trainers.
    Propped against the wall is a large icon of the virgin and child against a background of gold lustre. Bare toes peep from under her purple robe and her hands are open as though offering the child for adoration as he floats free before her breast. The Madonna's nose is long and thin,