This darksome burn...

...horseback brown,

After a bit of a lazy and slow start in the morning we headed out to the Trossachs this afternoon.

The slow start was partially down to the fact that younger people were not buying into my plan...it's going to be boring!

Thought we would head for Aberfoyle and then I got it in my head to go to Inversnaid...so we did and spent a most enjoyable afternoon tramping part of the West Highland Way.

On the way there I suddenly remembered learning the poem Inversnaid at school...twenty five years on I got the first two verses pretty much right and a good bit of the third verse, even remembered it was by Gerard Manley Hopkins. Surprised myself with that!

The midges became unbearable about 5pm so we retreated back to the car and headed home. On the way home there were a few admissions that the Barmy Army had 'enjoyed' their afternoon...still won't make it any easier to get them to move the next time I suggest something;-)

Generally on this Saturday of the year we would be ferry bound for Ireland but not this year...the plan is to go somewhere in October after the referendum. Since April I've been mentioning this to the Barmy Army but they either don't listen or thought I was joking! Older ones are OK but a couple of weeks back had a bit of a hard time from the Rooster and today it was the Fangle's turn. Hopefully, a few more weekend adventures like today's and I'll be forgiven! Can't say I'm not missing my Donegal shores but there'll be other chances to holiday...

So to sign of on this rather long post here in full is Inversnaid.

INVERSNAID
 
THIS darksome burn, horseback brown,
His rollrock highroad roaring down,
In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam
Flutes and low to the lake falls home.
 
A windpuff-bonnet of fáwn-fróth         
Turns and twindles over the broth
Of a pool so pitchblack, féll-frówning,
It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.
 
Degged with dew, dappled with dew
Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,         
Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,
And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.
 
What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;         
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.