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Updated: May 23, 2025
Poor Basil sometimes feels ashamed of Blunderbore, and certainly it is different from travelling in Mr. Somerled's Gray Dragon. With the Dragon, spirits of the wind used to rush out of forests to meet and dash ozone in our faces. With Blunderbore, if they come at all, they merely spray us lazily. Going from Stirling to Crieff we crossed the borderline of the Highlands.
"The most singular instance that I know of is that of a black ewe, that returned from a farm in the head of Glen Lyon to her home in Tweeddale, and accomplished the journey in nine days. She was soon missed by her owner, and a shepherd was despatched in pursuit of her, who followed her all the way to Crieff, where he turned and gave her up.
"On certain occasions, when it is absolutely necessary that I should meet them," answered Sir Henry. "They stay at the Station Hotel in Perth, coming over to Auchterarder by the last train at night and leaving by the first train in the morning from Crieff Junction.
By the time he reached Crieff, however, not a single volunteer had come in, and the stand of arms was sent back. Cope followed one of the great military roads which led straight to Fort Augustus, and had been made thirty years before by General Wade. Now across that road, some ten miles short of the fort, lies a high precipitous hill, called Corryarack.
Indeed, she took no notice of where her footsteps led her. Beyond Crieff she wandered, along the river-bank a short distance, ascending a hill, where a wild and wonderful view spread before her. There she sat down upon a big boulder to rest. Her hair blown by the chill wind, she sat staring straight before her, thinking ever thinking. She had not seen Lady Heyburn that day. She had seen no one.
This celebrated gibbet was, in the memory of the last generation, still standing at the western end of the town of Crieff, in Perthshire.
Because of Barrie's love for the Bruce, we got out and walked to the Bore Stone where he stood to direct the battle so fatal to the English. After this we were close to St. Ninian's, and to Stirling, though the day was still young; but there was lots to see, and I wanted to go on before dusk, to spend the night in Crieff.
National enmities have always been fiercest among borderers; and the enmity between the Highland borderer and the Lowland borderer along the whole frontier was the growth of ages, and was kept fresh by constant injuries. One day many square miles of pasture land were swept bare by armed plunderers from the hills. Another day a score of plaids dangled in a row on the gallows of Crieff or Stirling.
The fullest of the descriptions, so far as I know, is the one bequeathed to us by John Ramsay, laird of Ochtertyre, near Crieff, the patron of Burns and the friend of Sir Walter Scott. From his voluminous manuscripts, written in the last quarter of the eighteenth century, a selection was published in the latter part of the nineteenth century.
This celebrated gibbet was, in the memory of the last generation, still standing at the western end of the town of Crieff, in Perthshire.
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