Tim's Tales: The Hill of the Sun

It was part of a promised overnight trip, and we’d spent the previous night sleeping in our car; four of us, my wife and I, plus my two youngest children. We’d put the seats down to make it as much like a campervan as possible.

Well, when I say sleeping I meant the kids slept, while Kate and myself spent most of the night in uncomfortable contorted positions, regularly shifting our cramped limbs in a desperate, and usually in vain, attempt to find a comfortable posture.

The space was hogged by the two smallest of us, who slept like logs. I couldn’t help thinking that there must be a scientific explanation as to why a parent ends up with a tiny slice of space while their much smaller child is able to spread out with lots of room, like a dozing lion on an African plain.

The Hill of the Sun

Nevertheless, one such night is tolerable, especially when you are woken with the mixture of birdsong and excited howls from your kids as they rise from their undisturbed sleep to be greeted by the wonders of a Highland woodland. Plus, there were no midges at all, which made our breakfast by the camping stove all the more magical.

It was the morning of Easter Sunday and we were all feeling the effects of the climb to the top of a mountain the previous day. So I promised that we would have more gentle walks on our second and final day; and so we did, culminating in our trek to Signal Rock.

Glencoe pulls at my soul; it has a power that always overwhelms me. The approach from the wilds of Rannoch Moor never fails to make my spine tingle. It’s not just the landscape, it’s the history and legends that linger here. The weather was perfect too: dark brooding clouds clung onto the mountain tops as if jealously hiding the summits. Then, as the day got older, the mist and clouds lost their grip and shafts of sparkling sunlight peeled away the cloud cover, gradually revealing the towering grandeur of the Bens.

This sight and atmosphere was an inheritance given to me by my father, who adored the Highlands, and I was gladly passing it on. I felt the silenced awe in the car as we crossed Rannoch Moor: the moor of broken men, the land of giants and clans. I tried to tell stories to my kids that they didn’t already know, a hard task with Skye, for she seems to have the recall abilities of an ancient bard.

We entered the gaping jaws of Glencoe, under the shadow of Buachaille Etive Mor, then waited for the Three Sisters to make their appearance; they greeted us partially cloaked in swirls of mist. They never disappoint the senses. Our final destination was lower down the glen, by the Clachaig, where we set off for the Hill of the Sun and the legendary rock on its summit.

With perfect timing, the early afternoon sun finally broke through as we entered the wood. Many of the trees here are tall Canadian conifers planted over a hundred years ago by Donald Smith, who by then had the title Lord Strathcona. His story is quite remarkable, although no space here to tell it. While in Canada, he married Isabella Hardisty, who had her own fascinating life story.

I had been told that the trees they planted here were partly to help her feel at home. Theirs was a real love story, which I told as best I could as we sat under the shade of their trees. Now native trees are being encouraged, and the mix creates a beautifully enclosed tranquil setting; a contrast to the awe of the huge peaks which surround it, which are now mostly hidden from sight by the wood.

In ancient days, Signal Rock would have commanded a view of the glen, and we sat on its summit peering through the branches for tantalising glimpses of the mountains. The Gaelic name suggests it could have been a place of pre-Christian worship, a location to follow the sun, give thanks for the life it gives. Who knows, it’s all lost in time now, as is so much else in this incredible place.

Other traditions say Signal Rock was a gathering place for the MacDonalds in the glen, especially at times of danger or crisis. There is the suggestion the name could also refer to the clan using the rock as a beacon, although the idea that it was used in this way to start the infamous massacre in 1692 is a recent invention.

I wished that we could have had more time here to absorb its atmosphere. It is indeed a sacred place – and well cared for. But we needed to head for home, back to East Lothian, our short adventure over.

But a climb to the summit of Traprain Law is planned for next weekend, to visit another legendary stone, this time with the view unbroken.

At least we won’t have to ‘sleep’ in the car to do that!