Firbush and Killin

What a trip! We returned from Firbush this afternoon to see the sun for the first time since Monday morning! That said, the rain was the only real downside to our trip to Loch Tay - the area is beautiful, everyone seemed to have a nice time, and the writing excercises were amusing.

I'm not a biker (and I wasn't the only one there who can't ride), and I wasn't really fond of the idea of kayaking on Loch Tay in a wetsuit (you need it), so I took advantage of the roads and paths between the center and the village of Killin, three miles away. The most common features, besides ridiculous amounts of postcard-quality scenery, are sheep and cows; sheep bleat in a variety of registers, with the lambs sounding almost charicaturish and the older sheep sounding more like they're grunting. We also stumbled across deer and geese over the trip.


My favorite excursion was a walking trip to Killin. Dilys, who played taxi driver for most of us at one point or another, drove Rachel and me into town, and from there we popped onto Kinnel, a local sheep and cattle farm, to see a prehistoric stone circle. The owner was a very nice fellow who apparently gives permission to every tourist who wanders up to the house, but even nicer were his three border collies - like my dog, only black and white, and trained. They barked a lot until they smelled us, but what was so interesting about them was that they could cross the sheep-stopping grates that had been giving us fits with no problem.

The stone circle was tiny when compared to something like Stonehenge, but interesting and very scenic. The only downside was getting to it, which involved letting ourselves into the pasture (we're not so good with farm gates) and crossing a sheep-pie minefield.

After that, we visited the Breadalbane folklore center, which houses Rob Roy's sporran and dirk and several other artifacts, including the healing stones of St. Fillan. For the curious, there's a movie played upstairs - more a monologue, really, by a guy acting as Fillan - that tells all about the saint. Most of what I got out of it was "These hands...these hands were healing hands..." Good fun.

Crossing the bridge over the Falls of Dochart (a series of rapids), we passed the island where the chiefs of Clan McNab have been buried for 350 years, then headed out to Finlarig Castle, a ruin located half a mile out of town.

Finlarig might have been something in its day - 1609 - but by now only two towers and some connective wall remain. Most of the structure has fallen, and you're warned to approach at your own risk. Other featurs of the property include two graves, a 19th-century mausoleum (also in ruins), and the so-called "beheading pit" of Black Duncan Campbell.

Legend has it that the pit was reserved for noble executions, while the commoners got the hanging tree behind it. Some archaeologists think it's really just a cistern, but "beheading pit" has a certain charm to it, and the legend sticks.

I did a little research today, and Finlarig is possibly haunted (though there's not much left to haunt, really).






In any case, I took my share of pictures, and two came out slightly odd. It might have been the lighting conditions or my flash, but take it as you will.

Back from town, we then headed down to the bonfire (which didn't want to start for a good while), and a few of us roasted marshmallows. A few others fantasy casted The Dark Tower. Weird things happen when the wine is flowing...