Kenmore is a picturesque village situated at the northeastern tip of Loch Tay in Perthshire, Scotland, positioned on the River Tay where it flows out of the loch.

The mist clung low over Loch Tay as James MacGregor stepped off the ferry, his boots crunching on the damp shore. Kenmore, nestled at the eastern tip of the loch, was quiet in the early morning, save for the lapping of water against the jetty and the distant lowing of cattle. He had come seeking work, but more than that, he had come chasing a legend.

Inside The Kenmore Inn, warmed by the scent of peat smoke and fresh bread, he took a seat near the grand fireplace. The inn had stood here since 1572, welcoming travellers, soldiers, and poets alike. And it was a poet he had come to find—Robert Burns, Scotland’s bard, who, it was said, had once stayed the night and left a piece of himself behind.

The innkeeper, a stout woman with a keen eye, poured him a dram. “You’ll be wantin’ a room, then?”

“Aye,” James said, running his fingers along the stone mantelpiece. “And I’d like to see the writing.”

The innkeeper smirked. “Ach, another one,” she muttered, but she nodded toward the fireplace. There, faint but unmistakable, were words scratched into the stone by Robert Burns himself:

“Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, These northern scenes with weary feet I trace; O’er many a weary step, through many a wild, Romantic region, memory oft shall dwell.”

James traced the letters with reverence. Burns had been here, standing where he stood, perhaps looking out over Loch Tay, inspired by the very hills that loomed in the distance.

A voice behind him interrupted his thoughts. “Thinkin’ of addin’ your own words, then?”

James turned. A lass, no older than twenty, stood with a tray of empty tankards, her dark hair loose around her shoulders.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he said, grinning.

She laughed. “I’d hope not. The last fool who tried ended up with a boot to the backside from my father.”

“Your father runs the inn?”

“Aye, but he’s no poet. Just a man with a sharp eye for scoundrels.” She leaned closer. “Though between you and me, the Burns folk weren’t saints themselves. My gran says he left a girl heartbroken in Kenmore.”

James raised an eyebrow. He had read Burns’ poems of love and loss, of lasses left behind, but he had never imagined one of them could be tied to Kenmore itself.

Before he could ask more, the door blew open, and a gust of wind carried the scent of pine and loch water into the room. A traveller, wet from the crossing, stepped inside, shaking the rain from his cloak.

The lass straightened. “More visitors. Best you take your whisky and let the past rest, eh?”

James sat back down, but his thoughts drifted beyond the inn’s warmth, beyond the loch’s glassy surface, toward Taymouth Castle, which loomed in the distance. Once the grand seat of the Earls of Breadalbane, its halls hosted Queen Victoria, and its opulent rooms were filled with lavish tapestries and grandeur that were fit for a monarch.

But the war had changed everything. During World War II, the castle had become a hospital for Polish soldiers, many of them suffering from what the doctors now called battle fatigue—what we’d call PTSD today. Men who had seen and lost too much carried their ghosts through the castle corridors.

James thought of the soldiers who boarded the buses to Aberfeldy, where the picture house showed films of a world untouched by war. They never spoke much, but when they did, their accents were thick, their words careful. And sometimes, they handed the village children bars of chocolate—a small kindness, a reminder that not all had been lost.

He took another sip of whisky. He would set off westward along the loch tomorrow toward Fearnan, Lawers, and Killin. More stories were waiting, more memories lingering in the hills.

Author’s Note

Francis Belka was a Polish soldier who often boarded the bus to the Birks Cinema in Aberfeldy. Whem I was a child, I became acquainted with him as a regular passenger, always getting on at Taymouth Castle, where he and many other Polish soldiers were stationed during World War II.

On our way home, just before stepping off the bus, he would turn to the passengers and call out, “Dobranoc!”—“Goodnight” in Polish. It became a familiar and endearing ritual.Every week, without fail, he would hand me a chocolate bar—a rare and cherished treat in those days when sweets were scarce and only available with ration couons.