Met many delightful people, and still more delightful, happy children.
The wandering tourist would do well to make his headquarters here for at least a week. There is so much to be seen all around. It is indeed the centre of the land of romance and beauty.
Started next day through the Pass of Killiecrankie. Who has not heard of the wild wooded grandeur of this wonderful pass, or of the battle where the might of Claverhouse was hurled to the ground, and the hero himself slain?
It was a sad climb for our horses, but the pass is fearfully, awesomely grand. One cannot but shudder as he stands on the brink of the wooded chasm, over which the mounted troopers were hurled by the fierce-fighting Highlanders.
Just after leaving the pass, on the right is a meadow, in the centre of which is a stone, supposed by most tourists to mark the spot where the great Claverhouse fell. It is not so, but a preaching stone, where outdoor service was held in days of yore.
Behold up yonder, high above it on the hillside, the granite gables of “Ard House” peeping out above the trees. Near here was Claverhouse slain, shot while his horse was stooping to drink some water.
Made our midday halt in front of Bridge of Tilt Hotel. Were visited by many good people. Brakes laden with tourists pass and repass here all day long, for the scenery around here is far famed; splendid forests and wild rugged mountains, lochs and waterfalls—everything Highland.
A wretched kilted piper strutted round the Wanderer after dinner, playing pibrochs. I like the bagpipes and I love the Highland garb, but when the former is wheezy and shrieking, when the latter is muddy and ragged, and the musician himself pimply-faced and asthmatical, it takes away all the romance.
I saw this miserable piper afterwards dancing and shrieking. He was doing this because an ostler belaboured his bare legs with a gig whip.
I was glad to hear the real Highland bagpipes soon after. The wild music came floating on the autumn air from somewhere in the pine forest, and I could not help thinking of McGregor Simpson’s grand old song, the March of the Cameron Men—