A legendary local figure
100 YEARS AGO
Thrice a hundred years have come and gone since then, and still the rushing Turret flings its foam from bank to bank and rock to rock and wimples quietly into Earn; only the rocks were sharper, and the woods thicker up and down the glen in those far off days.
Near the meeting of the waters, and among the thickest of the woods, a little clearing might have been discovered by the curious.
A cosy dwelling little more than a hut, sat contentedly in the patch, in which grew the inevitable kail, and the indigenous parsnip.
The exterior was built of stout logs of spruce, squared, and fitted with an interior skin of dressed red pine, without paint or varnish. The roof was thatched with heather. The sweetness of the interior was enhanced by the tidy arrangement of the simple furniture. A three-legged pot, suspended from a brightly polished swee, bubbled over a cheerful wood fire on the open hearth. On two sides of the living room were some shelves filled with books, which were evidently not there for ornament.
An inner door led to the sanctuary of her own bedroom, into which no one was known to have been permitted to enter but herself.
Such was Eppie Callum’s house. • See more next week.