My wife and I had rented this old Scottish cottage in a sheltered valley near the River Dee for a little early autumn getaway from the crowded city. The troubles over the past year caused by my wife's discovery of a long past extra-marital affair at work were easing after my full confession and promise that it was a moment of madness that had ended a long time ago. Finally we had agreed to put things behind us to concentrate on what we could save.
The hillsides around us were still gloriously full of heather and we had several very clement days of mild sunshine to enjoy walking the surrounding countryside, spotting wild deer and the occasional large birds of prey. There were very few other walkers about at this time of year and in the gloriously sunshine our problems and life in the city were soon forgotten.
Alas there are few things less consistent than Scottish weather, so when the inevitable rain came as a good thick Scotch mist in the morning I approached it with the usual stoicism. After all there is no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong clothing, and we had plenty of practise in taking our fresh air in the rain as well as the sun.
For once though my wife Sally demurred, saying she was a little tired and would prefer to remain indoors for the day. I did wonder whether this was some lingering resentment towards me and offered to stay with her, but acquiesced to her wishes that I should not miss out the enjoyment of the countryside. The damp weather had driven most of the fair weather walkers off the hills, and in the thin mist and fine drizzle they felt even emptier without Sally. But when I returned later that day, more than a little damp, it was to a gloriously warm peat fire and my wife curled up in an armchair reading a book on the history of the local area.
The weather looked at have set in for the next few days, and as I got ready the next morning Sally called off again saying she had a slight headache. I thought that some fresh air would be just the answer to this, but she said that she probably just needed a bit more rest. Not wanting to make a big issue of this I accepted and headed out again.
My second day of walking felt like travelling back in time to a wild land devoid of humanity, the mist and cloud thickening to obscure much of the land. As I was drying out in front of the welcome fire after returning later that day Sally recounted to me several of the more salacious tales of the conflicts between the old Scots clans. In particular those of the notorious Flora Boyd, the beautiful but strong willed White Widow of Rathdun who had held dominion over the local area during the years of political instability when the early Stewart Kings of Scotland called James proved to be terribly short lived, what with all the murder, disease, and constant warfare against the English.
Robbery, extortion, and cattle rustling seemed to be normal business for the nobility in these wild parts far from the royal capital of Edinburgh. To this Flora added kidnapping for ransom and murder, even being suspected of the death of her first two husbands, whose lands she inherited after short but troublesome marriages. Her third husband seemed to have preferred a quieter but longer lived life, escaping to a monastery in the south and leaving Flora to her own devices.
Not that Flora wanted for male company. By all accounts she had a host of lovers and admirers who she toyed with for a night or a season, taking their gifts and exhausting their passion before moving on. There were many stories of witchcraft as well, spells cast against her enemies or the targets of her desires, although of course such tales are often told of powerful women and unattached widows.
One of her more unique tricks seemed to be the kidnapping of the heirs to any local rich lord or merchant. After gathering intelligence on her victim she would dress in disguise and head to a nearby tavern she had heard they would visit, and then playfully seduce the young man before tempting him to her room. For most of the arrogant young nobles the chance of spending the night with a beautiful and energetic wench proved irresistible. Unfortunately there was a high price to be paid for their night of passion, as Flora slipped them a sleeping draught so that her and her accomplices could spirit the poor fool away to her castle deep in the hills.
There her victims would stay while negotiations where conducted with his family. Payment would have to be made promptly or Flora would ensure that their son would be "forever spoilt". Sally and I speculated on what this might have meant. I thought that this might have been one of the hideous medieval punishments of mutilation, but she maintained that this could have meant something else because the stories spoke of those men that displeased Flora being found wandering the countryside "entirely wanting in wit" which suggested that is was their mental state that had been effected not their physical.
Over the years it seemed that stories of Flora merged with much of the standard folklore of Scotland, those of fair ladies waylaying innocent travellers, of river mermaids singing siren songs, of faeries who invited you to dance and if you accepted you would not be seen again for many years. There were tales of her appearing centuries after her birth. Sally seemed to be becoming quite knowledgeable about the local folklore, and with these dark fairy tales in our minds we headed off to bed.
The next morning the weather was still very dark and damp, perfectly exemplifying the Scottish word "dreich", and again Sally passed on walking through the wet hills. She seemed to be very much more interested in the books of local history and folklore that she had dug out of the cupboards of the old house, some of the older ones looking like they were printed in the Victorian age. Those which had images were a mix of Pre-Raphaelite paintings of glamorous fairy women with long flowing hair bewitching helpless knights, while other had line drawings of beautiful fairy beings in the style of Aubrey Beardsley that quite sensuous, curved limbs reaching out from behind curtains and rose bushes to entwine themselves around the main characters.
I kissed her goodbye and received a passionate kiss in return which said that she missed my company as much as I missed hers. Outside the dark clouds of drizzle soon turned into good heavy solid bands of rain whipped up by the wind. I was certainly burning off the calories and foul air of the city, but found my thoughts returning to the comfort and warmth of cuddling up beside the fire with my wife.
The path my feet were treading was one I had take with Sally on the first day that lead up the nearby hill, although this time the view was quite different. Instead of wide vistas of heather covered hills I could only see a dozen feet in front of me, the rest being blanketed by rain and low lying cloud. As I ascended the hill following the well trodden path clumps of thick white cloud blew around me, at times looking like a flock of sheep or a herd of white horses.
Horses had certainly been this way recently, as there were droppings along the path. And at the top of the hill near the trig point my foot trod on a horseshoe, one side of which was bent far out of shape. I absentmindedly picked it up and found it old and rusty, although the rain had long washed away any redness leaving a hard dark black. It looked much abused and whether it was actually cast off from a horse or had been used by some locals as part of a game I was not sure. I popped it in the pocket of my jacket thinking to mention it to Sally on my return to see if there were any horseshoe games mentioned in her books of folklore.
Walking alone through such a closed off environment that lacked visual information can sometimes do strange things to the mind. I kept thinking back to the stories that Sally had told me last night, of dancing fairy women who lured and kidnapped unwary travellers. Heading down the hill back into the valley the sighing wind blew long wisps of foggy white cloud past me like the veils of an exotic dancer.
With the ridge behind me the air grew warmer and the scent of heather rose up, sweet and soothing. The days of walking through good weather and foul must have been taking their toll on me as I began to feel tired. I yearned to be back inside the warm cottage with my wife beside the peat fire, but I knew that I was still about an hour away.
Walking along the path I came to a fork that I did not remember from my first walk. The well trodden path went right, but my natural sense of direction made me feel that the cottage was to the left. I paused to look at the map, but it had no suggestion of a second path. Down in the valley around me the wind had died away and everything felt very still.
