Ardtaraig

set down in writing; it is only doing justice to my theme when I affirm that I have heard outsiders speak with something akin to rapture of the Ardtarig good old times, and of their part in them; this, too, with tearful eyes and faltering voices. It was wonderful! True, the place itself was lovely; it possessed endless sources of interest and amusement – outdoor sports and recreations of an sorts – such, for example, as fishing (sea and river), boating, driving, riding, mountain-climbing, etc. There was also unbounded freedom, and this, of itself, my mother seemed to think, most of all contributed to its fascination. Whatever was the cause, the charm existed, and it exerted a power which neither time nor absence could obliterate.
In my day, the household consisted of the dear old grandfather and grandmother, one or other of their two unmarried daughters, and Miss Barbara Campbell, grandmamma’s only sister, who had been a member of the family for many years. It was not a bright circle for a little child, but I had access to no end of delights, and was supremely happy. The sounds, the sights, the very odours, haunt me yet!
What “golden hours flew o’er me” as I played upon the seashore, “paiddled” in the burn, ran round the duck-pond in ravishing proximity to all the feathered creatures which there abounded, or scrambled on the hillsides, eating crowberries, and rolling on the heather! What healthily constituted little girl could possibly desire more, in the tranquil, blessed, last century forties!
There were also, even then, occasional guests. I can recall the coming and going of these visitors, but little of the people themselves. Full well, however, do I remember the fishing parties, returning home at “dewy eve,” and the emptying of the baskets in front of the house on the soft green grass, just beyond the gravelled entrance, for grandpapa’s inspection. The trout, a shining mass, lay on the sward in dozens, and were scanned and counted by the grand old man, who, though he could no longer wield the rod himself, yet was able to enjoy the sight with all a sportsman’s zest, and also to compliment the captors.
One night papa displayed a splendid trout (I won’t venture to name its weight), on seeing which, grandpapa, in his quick way, asked: “Where’s the other?” My father looked his surprise, and said, “This was the largest one I got.” “Ah! but there is another,” said the veteran, “there is always a companion to a fish of this size. You must go back to the same pool and catch it.” Wondering much, papa next night went back, and, sure enough, caught “the other,” greatly to his own surprise and Gran’s satisfaction. I remember papa so well on these occasions, darting about, alert and active as he always was, with his big boots, his fishing basket duly slung, and a blue veil round his cap as a protection from the midges, which swarmed “adown the burnside.” This, “burn” was a big burn, a rollicking burn, churning, and leaping, and sparkling amid its foam, as its amber waters forced their way amid huge boulders, until, when quite near the house, it reached the climax of its beauty in a splendid resounding waterfall. Thereafter, it ran a deeper and a smoother course, before finally mingling with the salt waters of the loch. In the higher reaches it was known as “the roughburn”; there fishing was no joke, and in that dangerous spot my mother would be told, for her comfort, that papa was wont specially to distinguish himself.
What memories arise as I write! I seem yet to be sitting in “Thomdarrach,” on “Gran’s seat,” under the hazel trees. This rustic seat was a wonderful construction, made by the hands of my own dear father, for the comfort and delectation of the venerable man whom he so dearly loved. Sometimes, the first thing after breakfast, mamma would take me by the hand, and wander off to some of the lovely haunts, where, in her girlhood, she had often dreamt away the hours. Though not the only one, “Gran’s seat” was a favourite spot. I can yet see Loch Striven (the beautiful yet terrible loch that kept its dead with such unvarying tenacity), lying before us; deep blue almost as the sky at midnight, sending up the sunshine in dazzling stars, well-nigh more than the eye could bear, while I, happy child, sat by my mother, nestling close to her side. How often did we sit together thus, and also on the white sandy shore, at what was called “the Point,” surrounded by shells, whales’ eggs, and crisp seaweed; in “Stronreach,” under the pines; at the burnside, in sunny “Drimavoulin,” with a warm carpet of scented wild thyme at our feet, the rushing water sounding sweetly all the while, as if Nature had surrendered herself to us in her richest beauty? How fairy-like the birches, how glowing the scarlet of the rowans,