Along this path, entire tree’s rooting systems are stripped way back, from the countless trekking of mortals up and down the Glen River banks. Long sinuous limbs stretch intertwined across the woody floor. In places it appears as if the Picts had been at work weaving Celtic patterns out of these living limbs, which disappear and re-appear like half carved things of an earthly whole. Or Midas, (son of Gordias, not the golden one) having borne out the ancient oracle at last, (the oracle of Telmissus, missus, not the later one, its not borne out yet, perhaps cra, weedavie, or marymac for whom I uphold her tinder-flint analogy,) sat for years weaving Gordian knots, to tether wooden things in celebration of an end to aimless wandering.
Its impressive how these limbs suffer such abuse and still pulse water up their height, to the leafy tips at furthest reach. It is difficult not to imagine them coming alive, like the ones in the rugby/Guiness ads?, animated in fury and rebellion, but no, they stand in their rooting, arms raised to the heavens in their quiet nobility, indifferent to us, Midas and taciturnists both, and our ignoble freedoms.