Most people have never heard of it, and even people who live round here don't often notice it, let alone visit just to be there. But, I love it. I feel at home there, feel some sort of resonance with the landscape and it's long history that is still so evident.
There's a tension about the place that is almost palpable; it's exciting and slightly unnerving at the same time. There's something there, something I can't put my finger on, but something that draws me back time and again.
I'm not Scottish, I'm English. I have no Scottish ancestry that I know of, yet here I feel a part of the landscape, a part of the past somehow. Strange, but oddly true. Mind you, wouldn't be the first time I've been called odd, eh? So anyway, this is it, Moulin Moor.
The high road above Pitlochry in Perthshire, and a route for centuries that has seen armies, rogues, bandits, caterans, cattle drovers, secret trysts, farmers battling to survive, and even the one who lost. Poor auld Mr Soutar, who lived in the ruined farmhouse that stands above the road, and who died when trying to get back to the warmth and safety of his house in a violent snowstorm.
A memorial stone stands beside the road, and I'm sure he's still there, watching over his farm and maybe still trying to get home.
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