The Curious Incident of Dundurn, Part II

We drove home from Beltane around early afternoon as Paul was picking up the keys to his new house at 3pm. However, I couldn't get my mind off Dundurn. After saying that I never wanted to go near the place again, I then decided that, really, I had to. You can't leave something like that hanging. There needs to be a conclusion.

Whilst visiting Edinample the first time, I saw a big white rock near the top of the falls. It was submerged just a little too deeply for me to be able to wade in, so I pestered Paul to help me fish it out with a stick. I thought  that it had carvings on it but, on closer inspection, it didn't. Though it was a very strange stone. Paul suggested taking it with me, but I felt it would rather stay in the river, so I put it in a shallow pool so that I might find it again if we ever went back.

After dropping him off at the flat after Beltane, I drove almost an hour to the falls to find that rock. At the top of Dundurn on May Day, people had left rocks. I felt that if I could find that funny stone and carry it all the way to the top of Dundurn and place it with the others, then that would somehow close the matter. Perhaps I should have taken a rock with me the first time? If we're going to be superstitious about it, perhaps that's why things didn't go so well? Maybe there's a protocol for these sort of things, I just didn't know it at the time, because I'd never been to the top and seen those stones.

However, when I got to the falls, the river was much higher than it had been before, and I couldn't locate the pool I had placed the stone in. Instead, I found a beautiful grey stone. Smooth, like the ones I had seen on top of Dundurn. I also found a large white stone. Not quartz, but similar to the one I had lost. Finally, a small piece of what looked like Rose Quartz, but I don't think it is, because I don't think you find that in Scotland?

I kept the rose one for myself, with the intention of delivering the grey stone to the top of Dundurn, and the white one to the grave of Saint Fillan. Thus satisfying both the mountain and the dead. I felt that if I had a mission to focus upon, perhaps I wouldn't feel so nervous about setting foot on that hill again.

Last time, the approach to Dundurn was sunshine and blue skies. This time it was cold and grey, with clouds shrouding the surrounding mountains.

The goats were not impressed.

I should also mention that, along with the rocks, I took my stick. After the 6am North Sea skinny dip, I, like most others, scoured the beach for a little keepsake, to remind me of my right of passage. There were a lot of shells, and a few shards of pottery, but nothing that particularly called to me. As I turned for home, I stumbled across a beautiful piece of driftwood, perfectly smoothed, and wavy like the ocean. I held it in my hand as I climbed to the top with my rocks. Something about it was extremely comforting.

I thought I'd taken a different approach, but looked up to discover that I was at the foot of the path where I started to feel so unsafe last time. This made me feel a little dizzy for a moment, like an echo, but I held on tightly to my sea stick and carried on.

It felt good to be at the top. I didn't feel any of the sickness, headache or dizziness of the first time. 

View from the top.

I spent some time there before starting to make my way back down. Part way, I stopped for a pee, and found this lovely feather. I felt as though I'd been up with the eagles, so I took it with me to make the journey lighter.

The feather has now joined the good luck
charms in my car.

Paul and I had been discussing at length the second hill at Dundurn, which doesn't appear to have a name. Combined, they almost look like a paid of boobies from above.

Even on the first visit, I knew that I wanted to explore that second hill. So, instead of walking back the way I'd come - which is something I hate doing anyway - I decided to look for a more direct route from where I was to where I wanted to be.

This started out well. I simply turned to face the hill and started walking. 

Eventually, I came to this tree.

Apparently it's an Ash. In folklore it's also known as the 'hanging tree' because it always grows a branch at exactly the right height to hang people from. Not that I've ever tested that theory. But this tree gave me a distinctly uneasy feeling. Possible to do with the grinning death face in the rotting wood (middle picture), and the fact that its branches were pooling against the rock so that in places it was hard to tell where the tree ended and the mountain began. 

Tears sprang, my breathing tightened, and my muscles started to tense. At which point I held on to my stick for all it was worth and called up that gentle, calm space, floating in the freezing ocean beneath the golden sun.

It did the trick. I felt much, much calmer.

Then I fell on my ass.

Something I didn't know about Wild Hyacinths (Bluebells) before. They are extremely slippery.

One moment I was standing there, stock still. The next, I was sitting on the ground. The shock of it absolutely brought me back to myself, not least because I was on a slope, ending in a very steep drop. 

Definitely don't like that tree. I went up and poked it to make sure it wasn't a witch.

Then I decided to do something really daft...