WATER OF SORROW

Sunbeams sliced between the vertical window blinds, casting long shadows, like the bars of a prison cell, across the office floor. The sweltering heat of the day had eased as the sun now hovered above the western horizon in a cloudless sky.
Sitting at his desk and doodling in his notepad was the Glencruach Estate manager, James Melville. He squeezed his mobile phone to his ear as he waited patiently for the veterinary receptionist to come back on the line. He was in his early fifties and was Crieff born and bred. Epitomising the typical Highlander, he was tall and broad, yet lean owing to the physical demands of managing the estate, and his frequent hikes to mountain lochs where he satisfied his keen angling passion.
The rate at which the wildlife surrounding Loch Cruach, the large freshwater reservoir up in the mountains, was transforming alarmed James. For several weeks he’d dismissed the growing number of calls from anglers who testified to seeing impossibly large fish rising in the loch. James had tried to imply they were the victims of wishful thinking, often suggesting they’d probably seen the family of otters who were frequent visitors to the area. Adding to his anxiety was the increasing number of hill walkers who reported odd sightings. Enormous grouse “the size of peacocks” was one concerning account from a caller who, during a twilight stroll, had tried to edge closer to a bird which was resting in the dense undergrowth. James had waved off the claim. He’d offered what he hoped would come across as a believable explanation to the hiker: fawns were abundant at that time of year and he’d likely startled a young deer from its lie. Late at night, when the light was fading and the highland mist was settling, it was not uncommon for the eye to be deceived by strange yet convincing illusions. In a final attempt to persuade the man, James had recounted a particularly outlandish story from several years previous in which a group of visiting youths purporting to be avid ramblers swore blind they’d watched three scantily clad women cavorting between gorse bushes, clutching at bags of coins.

While James knew the Cruach was not the site of some magical Scottish fairytale, and the sighting of prancing maidens had been conjured by whatever illicit substances the youths had escaped to the glen to ingest, he remained troubled that something mysterious was happening around the loch. Trying to keep a lid on the tales until an explanation was found was quickly becoming impossible.
He needed answers, so he had called his friend, the local vet, Michael McMullan. James hoped he could offer a scientific reason for the abnormalities before word reached the community – particularly the older, more superstitious locals.
‘Mr Melville?’ The veterinary receptionist was a welcome interruption to the stream of concerning thoughts. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Dr McMullan’s in the middle of a procedure right now, but he asked if you could leave a message and he’ll phone when he’s finished.’
‘No problem, Catherine.’ James hesitated, then decided it was best not to say too much until he’d spoken with the vet. ‘Just tell him I’ll catch up with him tonight.’
Clad in his plus-fours, plaid shirt and deerstalker, James paced the floor of the office, his dizzy mind trying to structure the questions he needed to ask. He stopped and squinted through the vertical blinds to see groups of tourists milling around the distillery in the afternoon sunshine. It was mid-June, approaching peak tourist season, and Glencruach Whisky Distillery was a popular destination.
He checked the time. Almost four-thirty. If he was quick, he could squeeze in one more visit to the loch before dinner. See if there were any more worrying changes he’d missed ahead of speaking with the vet.

As he stepped out into the main reception area, a tourist party had just completed a guided tour of the distillery. They were full of questions for their guide, who was bedecked in a traditional tartan skirt and waistcoat. The guide’s grateful eye caught sight of the estate manager as he strode through the foyer.
‘Excuse me, Mr Melville. Can you spare a moment?’
James halted, concealed his agitation with a broad smile, then swivelled on one foot to face the young guide. ‘I’m in a bit of a rush, but I suppose I can make time for your good self, Isla. How can I help?’
The sightseers murmured, endorsing his charm with nods of approval.
The young girl blushed as she posed a question. ‘These nice people were asking about the history surrounding Strathearn. As an incomer, I only know what’s in the guidebooks, but I was just saying the best person to ask about the real history would be yourself, and here you are! Would you mind answering a few questions?’
James offered a little bow. ‘It would be my sincere pleasure. Come on outside, shall we? Let’s take advantage of this fine weather because goodness knows when we’ll see its like again.’
He winked to the group before turning to the young guide once more. ‘Isla will fetch us some refreshments. I’ll have a wee nip, thank you.’ Then he gestured to the tourists. ‘Perhaps our guests will also partake of a glass, assuming they haven’t had too many samples already?’ Scattered chuckles rippled through the crowd.
Once outside, the tourist party gathered around a picnic table in the shade of a large chestnut tree. They offloaded a barrage of questions before James had the chance to give an introductory welcome. They were eager to know the distance from major cities and towns, the history of the region, popular attractions, entertainment, and his recommendation for a good restaurant.

Leaning against the trunk of the chestnut tree, James perched his foot on the edge of the bench, and with his fingers he combed his thick crop of wavy, silver hair to one side. Just as he was about to respond, Isla appeared with the tray of drinks, along with a plate of homemade shortbread. Clutching a glass of whisky, James cleared his throat and began to recite distances and journey times to Scotland’s major towns and cities. At some point, between detailing the seventeen miles east to Perth, or that both Glasgow, to the southwest, and Edinburgh, to the southeast, were each around an hour’s drive away, James detected a vacancy glazing across his audience and stopped himself.
‘Ach, listen to me blethering away an absolute heap of nonsense. I sound like an audiobook for Google Maps, don’t I?’ The group giggled as James shook his head. ‘That’s no’ what you want to hear. The interesting stuff is in the geography – and the geology – of the land. Strathearn, this wee slice of paradise, sits right at the heart of mainland Scotland, straddling both the Highlands and Lowlands, and makes up a large part of the county of Perthshire.’
‘Where does the name “Strathearn” come from?’ asked one visitor, a lady slightly older than James himself, with a hint of a Northern European accent.
‘“Strath” is the Gaelic word for valley – typically a river valley – so Strathearn is the valley of the river Earn – which, incidentally, is excellent for salmon and sea trout if anyone likes to fish. The Earn covers roughly fifty miles, rising in the Highlands and flowing directly into Loch Earn at Lochearnhead, where you’ll find an array of water sports, if that’s your thing. From the loch, the river passes through the village of Comrie and into Crieff, finally exiting into the Tay Estuary just beyond the Bridge of Earn.’
James sneaked a glance at his watch, conscious he was running out of time to squeeze a loch visit in. He exaggerated the last sip from his glass, hoping to make it obvious he was ready to leave, and was about to ask the group if they had any final questions when a large, affable American spoke.

‘You mentioned Comrie. We went there yesterday and saw that little building they call the Earthquake House. That’s just a gimmick, right? You don’t actually get earthquakes in Scotland, do you?’
‘Aye, we do,’ Melvile told him. ‘Earthquake House records them all. While no’ nearly the same magnitude as in certain regions of America or the Far East, we have suffered the odd ’quake strong enough to knock the ornaments off the mantelpiece, and rattle the windows.’
‘Oh, boy!’ the American exclaimed. ‘I had no idea. So, why put the house there – what’s so special about Comrie?’
James explained to his captive audience that The Highland Boundary Fault, which sliced across Scotland from the Isle of Arran off to the west of Glasgow, all the way up to Stonehaven in the northeast, passed through Comrie.
Of all locations across the major fault zone, significantly more tremors hit Comrie than anywhere else, and that was the reason for the village’s nickname: The Shaky Toun.
‘Ironically, it was a James Melville – no relation, I should note – whose diary recorded the first known earthquake in 1597,’ he explained. ‘In 1839 there was a larger one – The Great Earthquake – which caused a dam to burst. Because of that, a committee was formed to document all incidents. A couple of years later, a physicist by the name of James Forbes designed the world’s first inverted pendulum seismometer to measure the ’quakes. It’s still there on display in Earthquake House for those of you that fancy a wee look. Of course, the recordings are now done with more modern instruments, but we like to honour our historical inventions in these parts.’
Feeling the conversation had come to a natural conclusion, James made to place his empty glass on the table and take leave, but his plans were thwarted once more.

‘One last question, if I may,’ the previous European lady began. ‘The guidebook mentions there are many walks and picnic areas around Crieff, and most are signposted. But if I wanted to venture into the hills away from the normal routes and do a little exploring, would I require a special permit?’
The last thing James Melville wanted was an adventurous tourist wandering near Loch Cruach. Not until he got answers to the questions clogging his mind.
‘Much of the landscape can be treacherous underfoot, especially around the hill lochs,’ James began. ‘My advice would be to stick to those detailed in the guidebook, regardless of how experienced a hiker you might be.’ He then gestured towards the Cruach. ‘Put it this way, we’ve had more than our fair share of Mountain Rescue call-outs here on the estate, and there’s no phone reception to call for help – take it from me, I live up in those hills! If you got yourself into any bother, you’d be at the mercy of the gods, waiting for someone to find you.’ James let his last statement hang in the air, hoping the message was clear.
‘Oh, my!’ the lady squeaked, then gave her head a little shake.
‘You might be interested in a visit to Kate McNiven’s Crag,’ James teased, now relieved that this particular rambler had been frightened away from the mysterious loch. ‘It’s the site where, in the seventeenth century, a local witch was sealed in a barrel and rolled down the cliff-face.’
Horrified gasps spread throughout the crowd, prompting James to raise both hands defensively. ‘We dinnae dae that sort of thing anymore… Nowadays, we just hang outsiders by their feet in the town square, last Friday of the month.’

The group guffawed, causing other visitors ambling through the complex to spin towards them, frowning at the outburst. Still chuckling, James raised an apologetic hand to the guests.
His eye caught something, and he fought to conceal his reaction. High in the cloudless sky, around the same northerly location as the loch, beyond the other visitors, he spotted a bird of prey circling. It was enormous and, to the untrained eye, could easily be mistaken for a sea eagle. James, however, knew it was an abnormally large buzzard.
He looked at his watch again, making sure everyone saw him this time, then placed his empty glass on the table.
‘Well, folks, it’s been a pleasure meeting you all, but I’m afraid I have to dash off. I hope the information has been of interest to you. Enjoy the rest of your stay here in Strathearn.’
The party showed their appreciation by applauding, along with some whoops and cheers from the Americans. After fulfilling a few selfie requests, which elicited yet more vexation that took every ounce of his energy to hide, he marched to his Land Rover, waving his deerstalker aloft to the group behind him.
Having eaten into the time he’d hoped to spend wandering around the lochside, James would now have to settle for a quick stop at the dam on his way home.