James left Killin behind, the roar of the Falls of Dochart fading as he made his way east. The night before, he had found shelter in a farm barn, the scent of hay and the quiet rustle of livestock keeping him company. Now, with the morning crisp and golden, he set out toward Aberfeldy, but not without a final pause at Fortingall.

“Maggie” James takes a break in Fortingll Churchyard

The ancient yew tree stood as it had for millennia, its gnarled branches whispering secrets of time. He lingered in the churchyard, where history rested beneath moss-covered stones, then pressed on.

A farmer’s haycart came rattling up the road, and with a nod and a knowing smile, the man gave him a lift as far as Weem. From there, it was only a short walk into Aberfeldy, where the town square greeted him with the familiar hum of Highland life.

The warmth of a dram or two settled in his bones at the distillery, a quiet toast to the road behind him. Then, as the afternoon stretched, he wandered into The Birks of Aberfeldy, stepping beneath the golden canopy of beech and birch. The falls tumbled in silver ribbons, and as he walked, he found himself singing Burns’s song, The Birks o’ Aberfeldy. The words drifted into the air, carried by the breeze, a farewell to summer, a welcome to autumn.

By late afternoon, it was time. He made his way to the edge of town, where Meg, his faithful mare, waited patiently beside his colourful caravan. He fastened the traces, gave her an affectionate pat on the neck, and climbed onto the driver’s seat with one last glance at Aberfeldy.

The wheels turned, the road stretched ahead, and the horizon burned with the copper and gold of approaching autumn. Dunkeld lay beyond, and in the shelter of a farmer’s field, the familiar resting place he called home, he would settle in for the winter.:

Author’s Note:

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