Balquhidder is not a city. Neither is it a town. In fact, even if you
used the word 'village' you could be accused of employing a certain
amount of artistic license. For Balquhidder is merely a scattering of
houses in a wide glen. It is a popular tourist destination because
Rob Roy MacGregor may lie buried by the tiny roofless ruin of a church. It
is also popular because of the countryside in which it sits. There are
mountains and there are lochs, there are glens and there are other bits.
For this is Scotland at its best: wild and remote and so attractive it
will make you cry.
I wouldn't wish to jump on board the bandwagon of Scottish history, but
it does seem to be the case that my ancestors, who hail from Balquhidder,
once played with the children of Rob Roy MacGregor. Some say they were
the Children of the Mist.
And when the surrounding hills and mountains become swathed in a
meandering white silken veil, one may stop and listen. For the spirits
of yesteryear are very much in evidence in Balquhidder. They tell
tales of long ago, when the redcoats of government troops scoured the
land for followers of Bonnie Prince Charlie. Jacobites. My own ancestors
suffered. Their cottage was searched for any of 'the prince's armour'. I
wouldn't wish to tell where my loyalties lie, but if you see me in the
street wearing a white rose, then you'll know where I'm coming from.
summer time is coming...