The road from Kenmore to Fearnan curved along the northern shore of Loch Tay, its waters dark and rippling beneath the looming peak of Ben Lawers. James MacGregor walked leisurely, the scent of damp earth and pine filling the air.

Fearnan, a quiet crofters’ village, lay nestled between the loch and the hills, its whitewashed cottages and stone crofts standing firm against the winds of time. Life here had been much the same for centuries—families tending their cattle, fields, and hearths. But James hadn’t come for the crofts. He had come for the steamer pier and the stories it held.

The wooden remains of the old pier jutted out into the loch, half-buried in reeds. Once, this had been a place of movement—boats docking, passengers stepping off with crates, letters, and news from the outside world. Queen of the Lake, Lady of the Lake, and Dunkeld had all passed through here, their bells echoing across the water.

But the most famous bell was not rung by a steamer’s captain.

James had heard the tale before but could almost see it unfold.

A collie dog, one of the village’s own, had taken it upon itself to ring the pier bell whenever a steamer approached. No one trained it—no one knew why it did it. Some said the dog had learned by watching the pier master; others believed it was simply instinct. Whatever the reason, the dog had become part of the loch’s rhythm, marking the arrival of each boat with the clang of metal on metal.

“A clever beast,” a voice said behind him.

James turned to see an old crofter leaning on a stick, his face worn by wind and years.

“It’s true, then?” James asked.

“Aye. That dog never missed a boat,” the old man said, smiling. “Rang the bell as if it were born to do it. No one told it to, no one rewarded it. It just… knew.”

James looked out at the loch, imagining the steamers gliding across the water, their passengers staring out at the Highland landscape as the collie announced their arrival.

But those days were gone. The steamers had faded into history, replaced by roads and motorcars. The pier was silent. And yet, standing there, James could still feel the echoes of the past.

The old crofter studied him. “Ye like history, lad?”

James nodded.

“Well, here’s a tale few speak of now.” The old man motioned toward a grassy field beyond the village. “They called it the cow park. Years back, a plane came over the loch—low, too low. Crashed behind the village. Russians aboard. None survived.”

James turned, following the man’s gaze to the open field, where cows grazed peacefully, unaware of the history beneath their hooves.

And then, the crofter motioned further beyond, toward the hills above the loch.

“That land there—it was once full of people. Crofters, families, bairns running wild. Then came the Clearances. Some went across the water, some to the cities, some across the ocean. All that’s left now are the stones.”

James followed his gaze, seeing what had been hidden in plain sight for the first time—the ruins of old crofts, stone walls crumbling into the earth, fields left to the wind. The land was beautiful, but it had not always been empty.

“You’ll find more stories up the road,” the crofter said. “The old schoolhouse, Lawers, the Lady’s prophecies… even the stones have tales to tell.”

James nodded. Lawers was next. He had heard whispers of The Lady of Lawers, a woman whose visions had shaped the fate of these lands.

The journey continued. But Fearnan had left its mark on him, just as the dog had left its mark on the loch—and the Clearances had left their mark on the land.

Next Stop: Lawyers & The Lady of Lawers

Authors’ Note:

As a young lad, I witnessed the low-flying plane flying over the village before crashing into the Cowpark. I’ve seen photographs of the collie dog reaching up on the Fearnan Pier to ring the bell but couldn’t locate one for this story. If you have access to one, please let me know—many thanks.