|
Caeriaverock Castle When A712 went straight, we took a side road to follow Loch Ken, passing through rural sheep and cattle land festooned with blazing indigo fireweed. In six kilometers we came to a church built in 1734 (if my roman numerals were correct), with a massive graveyard featuring extra large granite head stones. If one of those monuments toppled, it would kill someone. The wind kept the pesky flies down. We sat on a wrought iron bench and looked across the water to the tidy village of Crossmichael; its resident sailboats anchored in front. Threave castle's tower could be spotted rising above the meadow. The edifice had been built on an island in the middle of the River Dee. If you rang the bell, a boatman rowed over and took you to visit the castle. Away from downtown Dalbeattie we found a pedestrian bridge over a brown creek. Slender strands of long green grass waved in the current. It was a delightful place of solitude, soaking up the hot sun. We relaxed and enjoyed a box of chocolate ice cream bars. Two matrons wandered by and advised, "You should be paddling your toes in the drink." I loved looking at the map reading those Scottish town names: Muckwater, Caulker Bush and Haugh of Urr. Those Scots didn't hold back. During the hot afternoon, Sharon kept an eye peeled on each stream we crossed, looking for water deep enough to swim in. A few kilometers farther, in a deep pool by the road, Sharon did more than just dabble her toes. As she plunged in, I watched from the relative safety of the bridge. She returned refreshed and told me I didn't know what I had missed. If she would have found another river, she wouldn't have hesitated to jump in again. In the town of New Abbey we viewed the elegant and rich red stone remains of Sweetheart Abbey. The romantic name came about when a woman decreed her husband's heart be entombed in the altar. A beautifully preserved row of arches shimmered in the afternoon light. Half an end wall presented a mullion window. The grounds and cemetery, trimmed immaculately as any putting green, glowed an unearthly green. In Dumfries we made pancakes with milk shaken so much from the bumpy roads it had turned into a coagulated mixture of lumpy butter. The milk looked disgusting but the pancakes were the best I had ever tasted. (I saw blood pudding in the store--now that was disgusting.) Ten kilometers from Dunfries we came to Caeriaverock castle. A splendid brown moat with clumps of floating green algae surrounded it. Two boys wrestled on the bank above the moat, taking turns rolling down, each barely stopping before splashdown. The back of the castle was in ruin. The x-ray view gave a good impression of castle building, revealing an outside triangular shaped structure and a view of the former inside rooms. We camped in an estuary about a kilometer from the castle; friendly mosquitoes buzzed a lullaby. A large earwig scuttled across my camprest. In my haste to dispose of it, I bumped the candle and knocked wax onto Sharon's book and sleeping bag. The cloth immediately absorbed the molten wax and solidified into a grotesque lump inside the sleeping bag. |
|
|
Book Info