TALLA LINNS

and I travelled to Morar, a few miles south of Mallaig, to get married. Morar is famous for its silver sands; a series of white-sand beaches that curve along the coast. I’d never heard of it – despite growing up across the water on Skye.

The church where we were married is on the shores of Loch Morar, the deepest loch, replete with its own monster legend. It empties into the shortest river. It’s the kind of place found in quaint television shows.

Its chief attraction is found in walking about, especially if, like us, you do not have consistent access to a car. I have a fond memory of making the trip from our rental house at the beach to Morar’s unexpectedly good Thai restaurant, Sunset Morar, and meandering back the mile or so with delicious-smelling steam pluming from the carrier bag, as an equally unexpected sun shimmered on the river and the white-fringed Atlantic. Shirley Spear, chef As a child, family days out revolved around favourite spots in the Borders, in particular Talla Linns, high above the reservoir, near Tweedsmuir. We were very lucky to have a car in the 1950s and trips into the hills usually involved picnics, paddling in rivers and sometimes a swim. Racing each other in climbing to the top of the nearest hill, where we would sit on the rocks and watch the tumbling water in the burn.

I was always determined to take my children to experience these places. Driving up the singletrack road to Talla Linns takes me back to my childhood. I can’t wait to get out and make my way to the steep water’s edge, where the amber-coloured water splashes and tumbles over the rocks as it twists and turns all the way to the reservoir far below.

The sound of the rushing burn is intoxicating. I could listen to it for hours, mesmerised among the coarse grasses and wild flowers, my back against a rock, far from the madding crowds.

There is a very old, stone farmstead at the foot of the hill beside the reservoir, which keeps me focused on the harsher reality of a Border hill-farmer’s life.