The Trossachs

by G. E. Mitton

The falc’ner tossed his hawk away,

The hunter left the stag at bay;

Prompt at the signal of alarms,

Each son of Alpine rush’d to arms.

BRIG O’ TURK AND BEN VENUE.

In the great stag hunt, with which Scott’s poem opens, it was at this point that “the headmost horseman rode alone.”

We are now right in the Trossachs proper, and find the huge, palatial hotel which goes by that name facing little Loch Achray.

Having arrived at the junction of the roads—that is, the two principal approaches already noted—it is necessary to run over the ground from Aberfoyle before continuing the part through the Trossachs common to both routes.