The Courier & Advertiser (Fife Edition)
A trip through Perthshire
Business took me to Perth recently. I prefer driving the quieter road through Strathmore and usually turn off the A90 dual carriageway at Forfar and take the A94 via Coupar Angus.
I had time on my hands for the journey home and turned off at Kinrossie, just north of Balbeggie, and took the high road home along the east shoulder of the Strath. I could look up at the summit of Dunsinane, or Dunsinane Hill, one of the Sidlaw Hills range which marches between Perth and Dundee. It achieved notoriety in Will Shakespeare’s play, the Scottish play, the play whose name cannot be spoken.
“Macbeth shall never vanquish’d be until/ great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill/ shall come against him……” prophesied the three witches, or weird sisters, who Macbeth consulted.
I’ve climbed Dunsinane Hill, which is not high but is steep. On the summit the remains of an impressive fortress can be clearly traced which have long been known as Macbeth’s Castle.
It’s easy to see why it was such a strategically good site for a fortress. There are clear views in all directions to spy an approaching enemy and it seems likely that it was a place of defence as early as 1,000BC.
You’re not far, as the crow flies, from the River Tay. The two bridges linking Dundee and Fife, and Dundee Law, are all clearly visible. To the south you’ll see the Lomond Hills, overlooking Loch Leven, site of another defensive fortress.
Look 15 miles westwards to Birnam, next door to Dunkeld, in the foothills of the Grampian Mountains. Tradition says that Malcolm Canmore, who chased Macbeth off the top of his hilly fastness, ordered his men to cut down branches from the Forest of Birnam in order to camouflage the size of his army. Thus Birnam Wood marched on Dunsinane and, as foretold by the three witches, Macbeth was defeated.
Seeing the hill revived memories of Macbeth, our late lamented Westie terrier, who was a stalwart of this column and for many years was the inspiration of so much that I wrote.
Had I stayed on the main road and driven through Coupar Angus, I could have looked down into the valley of the River Isla on to an unassuming stonebuilt farmhouse by the banks of the river, which at one time was tenanted by a Whitson ancestor.
The farm has the quaint name of Mudhall – which is an example of an old Scottish place name reflecting the nature of its environment – like Windyedge or Caldhame (Caddam) or Hardgate. The land next to the river is liable to flooding and it is easy to believe that the name characterises the muddy conditions that the old farmers sometimes worked in.
We are thin on the ground now but in earlier centuries there were a number of Whitsons in the Perth/Blairgowrie area. A William Whitson was provost of Blairgowrie. Captain John Whitson of Perth was captain of the ship which brought the very first shipment of frozen lamb from New Zealand to London.
The freezer machinery broke down mid-voyage and Captain Whitson climbed down into the bowels of the ship to repair it. He nearly froze himself among the frozen lamb carcases but the crew pulled him out by the rope which he had wisely tied round his ankles in anticipation of just such a catastrophe.
I have my own icy stories. Aged nine I was packed off to boarding school where my father, and his father, had been before me. The school was run along healthy, which meant pretty Spartan, lines and, irrespective of the weather, every boy had to have a cold bath every morning and submerse himself up to his neck.
If I was first into the tub room (as it was called), and first into the cold tub, I remember several times at this time of year having to break the ice to get in.
Whatever the weather, every dormitory had to have one or two windows open all night to ensure a proper exchange of air. I’ve woken up in the morning after overnight snow and found a wee snowdrift on the end of my bed. Of course we were a hardy bunch in those days.
We’ve found Inka’s birth certificate and discovered he is 11 years old, although for the last four years we’ve been insisting he’s just seven. Despite his advancing years he still loves the snow, and these last mornings has bounced out of the house for the early morning walk just like a puppy. It’s good to see there’s life in the old dog yet.
My picture is of four ponies I see most times I drive out of the village. I don’t know whether their colouring has a particular name but I look out for them whenever I pass their field beside Balbegno Castle. They are obviously hardy animals too, for they seem to have survived the snow and the frost with no ill effects.
“I’ve woken up in the morning after overnight snow and found a wee snowdrift on the end of my bed. Of course we were a hardy bunch in those days