A glorious sunrise embraces me in its arms. It caresses me, between gentle and invigorating breezes, looking me straight in the eyes, with flowing sparkles. It is all blue, luminous and magical at the same time. At the zenith, shadows emerge that tightly embrace each other, above the waters. It is as if, on the horizon, the mysteries of the world are still ripening, ready to spring from the box of wonder. A horizon that embraces itself with arms of sky, water and earth, in a unique third of love. From the heart of the great lake, Loch Lomond, whispers seductively intertwined in delicate hymns, reaching the very top of the mind.
I step timidly, but with an unimaginable joy, on the mountainous and green land of the National Park, leaving behind the scent of the enchanted village of fairies, unveiled as if from fantastic fairy tales. Balloch looks at its mortals from the eyelid of immortality. There, in the bosom of fishermen and helmspersons, the daredevils who tamed the luster of the waters were born, beyond the curtain of thunder sent by the Tuatha De Danann, a bizarre gathering of kings, queens, druids, bards, warriors, heroes, healers and artisans with supernatural powers, dancing gloriously on the strips of light between heaven and earth, embodying the joy of life in playful rainbows, drawn across the lake.
In old Balloch, the legend still flows among the village paths today. Long ago, when the Earls of Lennox held court at Balloch, the castle stood on a hill that swallowed the morning mists and hid the secrets of the world in its deep moat. In the cold months, the fireplaces burned smoulderingly, and the lake, silent and dark, became a deceptive mirror. In one such winter, a young earl returned from his plundering with a strange trophy: a brass horn, engraved with waves. He raised it to his lips and blew, and the sound flew over the waters, light as a gull’s wing. That night, the people woke up and did not find the earl in the castle. There was a ripple in the smoke from the fireplace, and the servants swore that they had heard the clatter of hooves coming from the lakeshore. The old steward followed them. Not the steps of a man, but of a strange being, half horse, half shadow, to where the lake stretched to the sky. On the shore lay the horn, and the song in it had turned to stone in the salt. Some whispered that Each-Uisge, the water horse with the silky saddle and the enchanting voice, had lured him. Others believed that the horn had been given to him by the forest fairy Whinny, with whom the earl was in love, and that by blowing into it the earl had merely followed his passion. In the morning, the earl’s room was empty; only a lone boot by the threshold and the mists rising from the lake, erasing the hoof prints. After that night, the earls chose to move their abode to Inchmurrin Island, closer to the water, where the air was salty and the nights clear. Balloch Castle was overgrown with grass and wild shrubs, and its mound remained deserted by people, but full of stories. And on quiet days, children still crept to the ditch, listening to the wind that sometimes whistled like a submerged horn, bringing with it the aroma of a bygone era. But the old men shook their heads, remembering how a warning had once saved them: “Remember that water can take away what you say by name.”
When the new Balloch Castle was built in the early 19th century, and the park’s paths were adorned with rhododendrons, people found it a suitable place for walks and concerts. But on certain autumn evenings, when the lake lay cold and smooth as a sheet of tin, fishermen and gamekeepers would talk of a ghost: a pale figure moving slowly along the trees, a woman in a long, light dress, her hair hanging down her shoulders like seaweed washed by the river. They called her the Lady of the Promenade. She said no word; she just stared silently at the lake, turning her face as if waiting for a boat that never came. An old gardener swore that one morning, he had found a single white glove on the path. Inside, tightly stuck together, was a sprig of black grass, a mark, he said, left like an unseen grave. It was said to be the spirit of a lady who had loved too much an earl who had gone to Inchmurrin and never returned. Others believed she had been a stranger, a visitor drowned in secret, and the ground of the park kept the imprint of her hands. Children would venture to leave a pebble at the gate; if they found it moved at dawn, they knew that the Lady had passed. And the old woman whispered, “If you meet her and she looks at you, don’t ask where she’s going. Pick up your hat and move on, for pity has its hidden purpose.”
I walked slowly through the park that surrounded what was left of the “new”, but now very outdated, Balloch Castle. An incomprehensible chill seized me without warning, while a cold but delicate wind enveloped me, stirring up my thoughts. The Lady of the Promenade may still be making her rounds, waiting for the missing earl. And while mischievous fairies crowded into my fantasy, I let my steps be carried deeper into the mysterious forest that intertwined in my path. A noisy woodpecker, set on great deeds, announces, sharply and noisily, its presence. I drift, unconsciously, deeper and deeper into the forest, somehow following the sound of the woodpecker. Wrapped in green shadows, as if in a magic, I let my gaze spoil the morning, caressing the rays of light that delicately shine through the thick branches of the trees. Handsome oaks, beeches and firs wave their crowns in a forest dance in which the dances of the fairies still leave their imprints. The sun soars higher and higher on the blue horizon, embracing the crown of wonders of the world increasingly firmly. From here, in the heart of Scotland, a dark green carpet of forest moss coagulates like a story under the weight of my steps. Enchanted paths lure me ever closer to the heart of the forest. Happy birds raise their hymns of joy, chirping long-forgotten legends to me.
It is said that long ago, on the shores of the lake, there lived a fisherman’s son. Humble and silent, he spent his days helping his father with his nets and his nights dreaming stories that only the wind knew. One night, a woodpecker appeared to him in his dream. The bird called him with its rapid beat and whispered to him, in the language of the forest, to look for a particular tree. “There you will find a piece of wood pierced by my beak,” she told him. “From it you will make a flute, and its song will open your way.” In the morning, the boy set off for the forest. He let the sound of the woodpecker carry his steps, and in the heart of the thicket, he found the tree in question. From a broken branch, already hollowed out, he crafted a flute. The wood sang as if it had already been blessed. With his heart beating fast, the young man headed for the house of the great chief of the community. There, in the large courtyard, he raised the flute to his lips and let the sound fly. The melody floated like a wave of light, touching the souls of those who listened. The chief’s daughter, hearing the song, came out of the house. She looked the boy straight in the eyes, and then her heart lit up. They fell in love on the spot, and their love was so strong that neither time nor the world could shake it. They lived happily until old age. And when the boy, who had become old, passed into the world of shadows, people buried him with his beloved flute, so that it would be his song even beyond the blue. It is said that, throughout his life, he made thousands of flutes. People came from faraway lands to buy his magical instruments, and in return, they brought him various gifts: expensive clothes, jewellery, and fine food. But above all, they brought him their respect and admiration. The fisherman’s son became famous not for his riches, but for the song of his heart, born from the wood touched by the woodpecker. And to this day, the elders say that if you go deep into the forest and listen in silence, the wind still carries the sounds of his flute, calling pure souls to love and joy.
Surrounded by story and magic, I let myself be embraced by the hill, where the light plays, sparkles, painting the rainbow above the lake. The murmur of the forest still whispers, touching my face with rhymes of wonder. My thought caresses it, calmly rests it, like a breeze that requires no patience. How beautiful is joy! I can almost touch it with my palms. It hugs me, silently, in the boundless embrace of the universe. A perfect creation, laid out under the brush of a masterful Creator.
© Simona Prilogan
