Glenbuchat Heritage

15 Glenbuchat - Perfect Glen 1935

Aberdeen Press and Journal - Thursday 01 August 1935

I HAVE DISCOVERED THE PERFECT GLEN.
Gang up the Deveron and ower the hills tae Glenbuchat."

By A Young Artist.

THE perfect glen is not quite so easy to find as you might imagine, for first of all it must be not too long or too wide, with stream winding through it, a village, a lodge, a castle besides, a church and a manse, a school and a schoolhouse. It must possess lively historical associations and* not be plagued with too many visitors. So, when I set my problem before a Cabrach gentleman, he said, "Gang up the Deveron and ower the hills and doon the howe tae Glenbuchat." From Cabrach to Glenbuchat seemed but a step on the map; therefore, to the lilt of the Cabrach man's words I followed the Deveron up into the hills; though, between ourselves, I did think at the time that he was only trying to get rid of me.

Young Deveron.
The Deveron comes from the hills uneasily; it turns and twists through little ravines and bogs and round steep hummocks up to the soggy marsh which must be its source, where water drips over a peaty bank into channel that soon becomes the burn ready to begin a sixty-mile journey to the sea. Sheep stood still to watch me, wondering, I suppose, what kind of creature I was, not dog, not shepherd, and as I passed bleated querulously and ducked their heads to continue grazing on strips of grass on either side the burn. bee droned deep among the black heather stems on a solitary quest, perhaps not unlike my own. A red grouse rose quietly without excited bickerings, and whirred heavily over the brow of the hill. Cloud shadows galloped down from the Buck across the purpling heather to the Hill of Three Stones.

Hill Sounds.
For moment I lay on the springy heather and listened. In these hills there is rarely silence, always a faint drumming of quiet sounds and a shrill twittering like a choir of skylarks singing in a key pitched just beyond one's power of hearing. On the ridge when I was hoping to see into the howe of Glenbuchat, a mist-grey wall of rain came sweeping up the glen shrouding it completely. So, it happened that I went down into the howe of Glenbuchat drenched in rain. I might have gone further, but asked shelter at the first croft saw. The inmates had not a spare bed, but said that I was welcome to a loft above the byre. A boy with fiery-red hair and a round face liberally peppered with great freckles filled two clean sacks with fresh to serve as my mattress. Fine springs and down are poor substitutes for newly cut dry hay! Close up against the roughly-slated roof I lay for a while listening to the noise of spattering rain. Mice or rats ran about the loft. I believe I dreamed of a wide green valley dotted with fields of "coled" hay, and on every cole a red-haired boy slept. I walked in and out among them and painted freckles on their faces. Quite late I woke to find the sun in the cobwebbed window, casting a short, mote-flecked beam into the loft. Down the flimsy ladder that gave access through a trapdoor to the byre, scattering a group of hens cluck-clucking to the far corner of the croft—out into the sunshine.

Discovered.
Though I had no inkling of what lay over the nearer folds of the hills which just hid the far end of the glen, I knew at a glance that I had come to the end of my search —that here undoubtedly was the perfect glen; so, I pitched my green tent unobtrusively and went to explore. The lodge was there, backed by brown hills and sparse woods. The Water of Buchat sang pleasantly. There, too, was a cluster of houses, not large enough to make village, but just enough! A narrow, steep path (they call it "The Rockies") climbed up to the tall grey schoolhouse and round it to the squat school buildings. Down again by the burn was the manse with its spacious garden and the church. Another church, half hidden in trees, stood on the hillside. And at the head of the glen were the ruins of Glenbuchat Castle. In time I began to hear of the great Gordon of Glenbucket and his comings and goings in the '15 and '45, and tales of smuggling, stories of gay lads and Coy maidens, horrible tales, too, murder and hardship. "Creepy ' tales, I assure you! There was some talk of a ghost, but I rather think the farmer was trying to pull my leg with that nightmare.

Up Ben Newe.
Then I had to climb Ben Newe. They say it is an easy climb. must hae gone up by the worst possible way because the hill rose steeply like the roof of a house. You have splendid view from the summit, the glen in its completeness patterned at jour feet, encircling brown and purple -Us rising here and there to distant peaks wit green hollows between. And the colour! Another less arduous climb is to the Garnet Stone, a boulder fairly studded with garnets, in size ranging from a pin head to a large walnut. I picked out a few, just like picking currants out of a cake. Oh! Great fun until broke the handle of an axe in my prospecting endeavours, the head flying off somewhere, lost. I had borrowed the thing, too, and had to buy a new one.

Her "Ferlies."
I tell you all this in case you adventuring in the perfect glen and make mistakes and be laughed at, mockingly. But then I made the acquaintance of an old lady. She told me of her adventurous past and showed me her. "ferlies." One, if I remember rightly, was watch presented by Queen Victoria. I was more interested in the lady herself than in her memories, she would have made a very excellent portrait. If, however, you do not believe you can but go and see for yourself, and stay for a season in the Perfect Glen.