Balquhidder
as we chuffed slowly northward, leaving Father in Wales, I
had no idea where we were going, or why... arriving in a
huge dank station, after 'black out'..., we were met and
taken by taxi.. headlights covered and pointing downwards
in a small sliver of light... to spend the night with
Hannah, who had been my Grandmother's parlour maid before
this horrible war...
next day we were packed into a car, with a basket of
sandwiches and a thermos...I felt better with each mile! it
was so beautiful, no crumpled houses, or wardens searching
in the rubble...and, when we stopped, the silence fell
around us...
on the hillside above Balquhidder stands a lovely old
house, and that evening the windows seemed to shine a
welcome, we were hugged gently and shown to our
rooms...lined with silk, and with huge welcoming fluffy
beds and heavy curtains at the windows...I remember the
wonder of lying in a proper bed, feeling safe, listening to
the house settle for the night...
each day was better than the last, I used to sit and soak
in the peace... gradually realising the beauty around
me...memories were becoming lost in a healing mist.
by the gates of Auctubhmore was a small hut, sheltered by
three old pine trees it was the home of my cousin
Edwin....I loved him, he was an eccentric adventurer,
beautiful books, tooled in gold lined the shelves, and rich
rugs were soft to sit on while he read tales of faraway
lands...he would come to the house for breakfast, and ate
his porridge leaning on the mantlepiece his back to the
spitting log fire...
and then the evacuees arrived!
they arrived by train, dusty and frightened....I knew how
they felt... they soon settled in and we did everything
together...trekking through the bracken, damming the small
rushing burns, climbing trees, and the rocky slopes behind
the house, hide and seek in the old barns, fishing with
hazel sticks and string with a wriggling worm...
in the mornings we would sit and wait for the train as it
puffed gloriously up the glen, the two huge engines shiny
with brass, and hissing steam...mail bags exchanged hands
as the engines sucked thirstily from the water tanks...
later on the postman would come singing up the drive, and
then the excitement as letters were read bringing tales of
the world we had left only a short time ago.
as winter set in with its rains, the flat fields became
what was known as Loch Occasional. we made boats and rafts,
and built harbours, wading in gumboots for hours on end
completely content...
twice a week a teacher would come and give us lessons, I
would look out of the window,...this beautiful place had
taught me to dream!
soon the autumn frosts froze the loch, and we skidded and
skated till dark, and then the snows came, we sat on the
window seats watching the flakes falling in a thick white
curtain, the smell of baking from the kitchen drifting up
the stairs...
we made rows of snowmen...little hitlers with black
moustaches, and threw snowballs at them until they were
just soggy, anonymous mounds of snow
long evenings were filled with stories round the big fire
in the drawing room, the light flickering on the faded
wallpaper, and thick curtains muffling the wind.
or there would be the wild abandon and exhilaration of
scottish dancing to the records kept in a red battered case
from under the chintz of the window seat....
we lived in the moment, with no thought for the future...
pim claridge