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Legend tells that the traditional Scottish song "Loch Lomond" was written by a Jacobite soldier who was taken prisoner to England in the
rising of 1745. He was to be executed while his
comrades were to be released.
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According to Gaelic folklore, the spirit of the dead travelled
swiftly
by the "low road" and the condemned man would arrive in
Scotland while the living were still struggling over the rugged terrain of the
"high road". And so the soldier who would be put to death wrote to one of
his comrades of the sweetheart he would never meet again, and the lovely loch
they had so often and so well enjoyed ...
Our own parting at Loch Lomond was not from
each other but from the land we had come to love so well on the journey which
had begun only two weeks before. How swiftly the days had flown!
Along the way, we'd encountered creatures great and
small. We'd visited kirks and castles, lovely gardens and inspiring tombs.
We'd surveyed battlefields and monuments, sky-blue lochs and picturesque bridges.
We'd gazed at lofty mountains and shining rivers and seas. We'd enjoyed
charming hospitality and wonderful Scottish cooking. And we'd discovered our
Scottish heritage, and our heritage of faith.
For most of my
life, seeing Scotland had been my heart’s desire, while John would have been
happy never to leave American soil ... until we went together to the
Grandfather Mountain Highland Games in North Carolina. It was there that John began to think
that a visit to Scotland just might be fun. Still, the trip was my dream, and
he was willing to go anywhere I wanted, no matter how remote, and in spite of
having to drive on the wrong side of the road from the wrong side of the car.
It was sometimes a daunting task. Imagine my surprise, then, on the plane
leaving Glasgow to come home again, when he smiled at me and declared, “We are
coming back to Scotland!” Then I thought, having seen and done all I had
dreamed, that my journey of a lifetime could not have been more perfect.
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Twas there that we parted
in yon shady glen
on the steep,
steep sides o'
Ben Lomond, where in the
purple hue,
the Hieland hills we view,
an' the moon comin' out
in the gloamin'.
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But we're no awa' tae bide awa',
For we're no awa' tae le'e ye!
No, we're no awa' tae bide awa'!
We'll aye come back an' see ye!
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