The Glen

Well, it’s not the only Glen, but since I was a teenager, it’s been known as “The Glen”. Kids from the area live “up the Glen”, catch “the Glen bus” and come fae “up the Glen”… Only recently, it’s dawned on me how much I will miss the Glen and how many fond memories I have of the area and of the parental home.

The house is sold, my parents are moving. It’s very sad. But, with Sis on her way back to NZ – indefinitely – and me living in the South, there’s no need for my parents to live in and rattle around such a big house (& manage such a large property and garden) as they get older.

I can’t help feeling that it’s not right. The house should stay within our family. We are linked to the Glen…but will we return?

During this traumatic week, I took Mum to the golf club in Pitlochry. We’ve lived in the area for 26 years, yet it’s the first time she’s ever seen the golf club from the inside. All of this on her doorstep, yet never had the time to enjoy it?

Is that what happens? You move somewhere because you love it, but you’re too busy keeping a roof over your head, caring for others and maintaining the home and grounds that you don’t appreciate your surroundings?

I don’t want to cut the ties with my Glen. I want to be able to visit “Grandad Rock”, to tell tales of swimming in the river, fishing in the Brerachan and tickling trout in the burn… I want to be able to walk to the waterfall and drink whisky with water straight from the falls… I want to retell stories of climbing the wrong Munro…and to be able to see Souter’s stone…

It’s not over. It can’t be, I don’t hear a fat lady.

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