The  song  makes  it  so  ,   the  tale  that  was  told  to  St.  Patrick  by  one  of  Ossian's  men  when  the  heroes  were  dead  and  the  battles  done   :sx   
"  Skipping  deer  are  on  her  pinnacles  ;  soft  blackberries  are  in  her  waving  heather  and  mast  upon  her  russet  oaks .sx   A  crimson  crop  grows  on  her  rocks  , in  all  her  glades  a  faultless  grass  ;  under  her  rivers'  brinks  trout  lie  ;  the  seagulls  wheeling  round  her  grand  cliff  answer  one  another .sx   At  every  fitting  time  delectable  is  Arran .sx   " 
There  is  nothing  altered  , if  you  climb  away  from  the  coast  , or  wander  round  the  lonely  north  shore  where  the  seal  and  the  sea-otter  still  hunt  , though  sometimes  the  deer  leave  their  pinnacles  and  forget  that  villages  were  made  for  man .sx   I  caught  them  in  a  moment  of  forgetfulness  when  I  looked  out  early  one  morning  in  April  , from  the  skylight  of  one  of  those  whitewashed  cottages  that  march  in  rows  by  the  shore  here  and  there  round  the  island  coast .sx   Rising  from  the  mainland  hills  across  the  Firth  , long  fingers  of  cloud  sloped  an  infinite  way  into  the  sky .sx   Had  I  risen  earlier  I  should  have  seen  the  first  fires  reach  them  and  begin  to  warm  their  greyness .sx   Now  they  could  hold  no  more  fire  , and  in  a  few  seconds  the  molten  rim  of  the  sun  rested  on  the  hilltops  , seeming  so  fiery  hot  that  I  waited  for  it  to  spill  down  the  slopes  and  trickle  , hissing  , into  the  sea .sx   
Then  I  looked  down  from  this  brightness  and  a  sound  must  have  been  startled  from  me .sx   On  the  patch  of  grass  between  road  and  sea  , just  below  the  cottage  , stood  three  great  stags  , their  poised  candelabra  fretted  with  the  first  long  rays .sx   They  turned  their  heads  from  the  dawn  towards  me  , and  meditated  for  a  moment  , and  then  , remembering  where  they  were  , walked  in  slow  single  file  down  the  village  road  and  up  into  the  hills .sx   
The  island  of  Arran  at  the  back  end  of  April  is  as  seductive  and  as  mischancy  a  place  as  a  man  could  wish  to  be  set  free  in .sx   On  one  day  its  jagged  granite  mountains  will  be  hovering  in  a  lotos  haze  above  a  sea  so  quiet  that  it  would  seem  as  if  the  thistledown  might  glide  across  the  Firth  of  Clyde  unwetted  to  the  Ayrshire  coast .sx   On  the  next  , winter  will  make  an  onslaught  from  the  south-west  , driving  its  pack  of  rasping  winds  and  hurrying  clouds  out  of  the  Atlantic  , leaping  across  the  Mull  of  Kintyre  in  a  frenzy  to  destroy  the  peace  of  Arran .sx   The  loiterer  will  find  himself  lured  into  a  net  of  beauty  , until  his  weather  sense  is  crooned  asleep  by  the  passionate  , drowsy  chanting  of  the  mountains  and  the  subtle  fragrance  of  heather  and  sea .sx   Then  , without  warning  , the  swift  arrows  of  the  storm  will  slash  across  his  dream  and  he  will  find  himself  struggling  like  a  fishing  cobble  in  a  wet  maze  for  any  shelter  away  from  the  wind  and  the  rain .sx   
Towards  the  evening  of  just  such  a  long  , breathless  day  I  remember  leaving  the  coast  road  where  it  runs  under  the  towering  peaks  of  Glen  Sannox  , and  settling  down  for  the  night  in  a  place  that  comes  to  mind  like  a  draught  of  cool  water  from  a  hill  stream  after  ten  miles  of  dusty  walking .sx   Beside  a  tawny  stream  that  runs  quietly  into  the  sea  after  its  rush  from  the  hills  there  is  a  wood  of  larches  , softly  carpeted  under  foot .sx   There  is  a  narrow  strip  of  silvery  shingle  beach  along  the  shore  , and  a  patch  of  cropped  beach  grass  by  the  stream .sx   All  else  is  heather  and  deep  waving  bracken  , green  and  russet  , brown  or  purple  , as  the  season  rules  , sloping   .sx
upward  to  the  peak  of  Suedhe  Fearghas  which  shuts  out  the  western  sky .sx   I  stood  for  a  long  time  on  the  shore  after  supper  watching  gannets  dive  , and  solon  geese  passing  north  , and  looking  eastward  across  the  firth  to  where  small  clouds  caught  the  afterglow  and  the  low  hills  of  Bute  deepened  from  violet  to  dark  purple  in  the  fading  light .sx   In  the  larch  wood  the  smoke  of  my  fire  drifted  straight  up  to  the  treetops .sx   I  piled  on  more  wood  , for  it  grew  cold  as  the  stars  came  out  , and  damping  it  down  with  moss  , rolled  myself  in  my  blanket  beside  it .sx   Between  sleeping  and  waking  I  watched  the  tree  stumps  dancing  in  the  firelight  circle .sx   The  only  sounds  were  the  falling  of  a  burnt  log  , the  soughing  of  a  faint  night  breeze  about  the  larch  tops  , and  the  murmur  of  the  incoming  tide .sx   Before  I  fell  asleep  I  heard  the  sharp  coughing  of  a  deer  wandering  away  from  the  mountain  side  on  its  nightly  search  for  food .sx   
Next  morning  the  spell  remained  unbroken .sx   There  was  a  hushed  radiance  about  the  hill  road  to  Lochranza  , on  the  other  side  of  the  island .sx   A  heat  haze  shimmered  above  the  faded  heather  , and  the  Highland  cattle  stood  knee  deep  in  the  burn  , lazily  swinging  their  tails .sx   The  crags  of  the  Castles  and  the  Sleeping  Warrior  stood  stark  against  a  cloudless  sky .sx   Only  the  distant  waterfalls  rushing  down  their  steep  sides  moved  , fluttering  like  lace  curtains .sx   I  walked  all  day  in  a  waking  dream  and  stopped  , very  tired  , in  the  evening  , at  the  mouth  of  Glen  Iorsa  , which  looks  westward  across  the  Firth  to  the  Mull  of  Kintyre .sx   There  was  little  shelter  there  , but  the  heather  was  deep  and  soft  , and  the  half-dozen  miles  to  the  nearest  inn  seemed  a  long  distance .sx   
I  lay  reading  in  my  blanket  until  the  light  faded  , and  then  fell  asleep .sx   About  two  in  the  morning  I  woke  in  a  sudden  panic .sx   I  had  been  dreaming  that  I  had  fallen  into  a  deep  pool  of  water  surrounded  by  smooth  cliffs .sx   The  reality  was  not  much  more  reassuring .sx   There  was  a  sound  as  if  someone  were  emptying  sacks  of  peas  on  to  my  waterproof  covering .sx   A  great  wind  was  tugging  at  my  blanket .sx   Little  pools  of  water  , collected  in  the  hollows  of  the  groundsheet  , emptied  themselves  onto  me  whenever  I  moved .sx   Very  reluctantly  , for  it  seemed  better  to  doze  half  wet  than  to  get  up  and  face  the  storm  , I  rose  , and  stowing  my  kit  as  best  I  could  in  the  darkness  , stumbled  over  the  heather  to  look  for  shelter .sx   I  had  to  walk  in  the  teeth  of  the  south-west  gale  , stopping  every  few  minutes  to  gain  breath .sx   The  stinging  salt  drift  from  the  sea  , careering  across  the  coast  road  , drove  into  my  face .sx   A  mixture  of  hail  and  rain  hurtled  along  on  the  wind .sx   I  was  still  half  asleep  and  my  mind  was  a  confused  blend  of  colours .sx   The  moonlit  flood  of  the  night  before  and  the  golden  radiance  of  the  morning  flitted  across  the  darkness  and  the  driving  white  spume .sx   
I  must  have  struggled  two  or  three  miles  when  I  noticed  a  square  of  light  shining  in  the  darkness  on  my  left .sx   Without  stopping  to  think  I  climbed  up  to  it  and  knocked  loudly  on  the  door .sx   It  opened  and  closed  behind  me  , and  a  West-Highland  voice  asked  me  to  sit  down  by  the  fire .sx   I  remember  being  a  little  ashamed  afterwards  of  taking  this  watch-hour  hospitality  so  much  for  granted  , but  at  the  moment  I  was  only  aware  of  a  flowing  tide  of  warmth  and  the  faint  rattling  of  the  gale  on  the  windowpane .sx   A  hot  supper  of  eggs  and  oat  bannocks  was  set  before  me .sx   Upstairs   .sx
a  newly  laid  wood  fire  crackled  in  a  tiny  bedroom  , and  I  fell  into  a  deep  sleep  to  wake  late  in  the  morning .sx   Breakfast  was  ready  in  the  kitchen .sx   The  housewife  sat  and  talked  while  I  ate  it .sx   She  kept  a  small  store  of  medicines  , and  someone  had  come  with  an  urgent  request  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning  ;  otherwise  I  might  never  have  seen  the  light  in  her  window .sx   Her  husband  was  away  with  the  fishing  fleet  , she  said  , and  she  knew  what  it  was  like  to  be  out  on  that  coast  on  a  stormy  night .sx   
When  the  time  came  for  leaving  I  asked  what  I  owed  for  my  night's  lodging .sx   She  waved  the  question  aside    "  Naething  at  all  , naething  at  all .sx   Folks'll  meet  where  the  hills'll  no  meet .sx   " 
I  went  up  the  road  into  the  hills  again  blessing  the  hospitality  of  Arran .sx   
CHAPTER  VII   .sx

THE  WATCHING  MONTH   .sx

IT  would  appear  that  we  have  had  to  put  up  with  a  deal  of  hard  weather  during  the  first  four  months  of  this  loitering  year .sx   There  has  been  much  changing  of  wet  clothes  on  different  evenings  , and  much  steam  rising  from  boots'  and  shoes  in  front  of  kitchen  fires .sx   Dartmoor  , and  the  Border  Country  , and  the  Cairngorms  and  the  Black  Mountains  and  even  the  Chilterns  have  not  put  themselves-  about  to  make  any  special  arrangements  for  our  comfort .sx   It  would  also  appear  that  there  has  been  no  great  cause  for  complaint  , and  , indeed  , that  we  have  positively  enjoyed  whatever  weather  might  be  offered  to  us .sx   There  is  a  legend  , common  enough  in  other  parts  of  the  world  , and  seldom  contradicted  by  us  , that  this  island  is  a  spongy  , depressing  plot  of  land  for  the  greater  part  of  the  year  , and  particularly  in  winter  and  early  spring .sx   Our  lack  of  effervescent  gaiety  finds  an  excuse  in  the  blanket  of  cold  , wet  fog  which  is  supposed  to  shroud  our  waking  moments .sx   When  we  journey  into  warmer  zones  it  is  always  imagined  that  the  assurance  of  unlimited  sun  in  an  unclouded  sky  causes  us  to  enjoy  ourselves  hugely .sx   Doubtless  it  does    for  a  time .sx   But  the  truth  is  that  we  have  been  spoiled  by  a  climate   .sx
that  offers  us  the  entertainment  of  endless  variety .sx   We  do  not  really  want  to  have  our  seasons  fixed  , to  know  the  exact  limits  of  the  rainy  period  , or  to  be  able  to  forecast  a  long  succession  of  days  of  unalterable  warmth .sx   We  grumble  , of  course  , when  our  fine  weather  projects  are  ruined  by  rain  or  unseasonable  cold  , but  in  the  balance  we  are  content  to  be  allowed  to  indulge  in  a  series  of  joyous  gambles  , to  be  holders  of  permanent  tickets  in  the  weather  lottery  of  the  British  Isles  ;  to  be  handed  a  prize  of  golden  light  and  warmth  when  we  least  expect  it  , and  to  spend  it  in  reckless  enjoyment  , while  we  may .sx   
I  once  walked  across  the  Pentland  Hills  , near  Edinburgh  on  a  day  of  low-hanging  mist .sx   Late  in  the  afternoon  the  sun  broke  through  and  an  amber  world  hung  with  pearl  drops  of  moisture  was  quietly  unfurled .sx   With  me  was  a  Rhodesian  who  was  about  to  return  to  his  country  after  spending  four  years  in  England  and  Scotland .sx   
"  You  know  , " he  said  , "  this  is  what  I  shall  miss  more  than  anything  else    Scotch  mist  , and  the  chance  of  the  sun  coming  through .sx   " 
Uncertainty  is  the  charm  of  loitering  in  this  country .sx   You  can  never  tell  on  any  morning  in  the  year  what  transformation  the  light  of  day  playing  upon  the  colours  of  the  earth  will  offer  for  your  enjoyment .sx   You  may  have  walked  a  hundred  times  over  the  same  stretch  of  countryside  and  still  be  ignorant  of  half  the  nuances  of  expression  that  its  face  can  reveal .sx   And  you  may  catch  now  and  then  a  glance  , a  trick  of  light  , a  play  of  wind  or  rain  or  snow  that  you  will  see  only  once  in  a  lifetime .sx   You  may  climb  a  hill  that  you  have  climbed  a  hundred  times  before  and  happen  upon  the   .sx
one  afternoon  of  silvery  light  from  an  even  grey  sky  that  shows  you  the  world  on  all  sides  etched  in  every  outline  more  clearly  than  you  have  ever  seen  it  before  or  probably  ever  will  see  it  again .sx   I  don't  suppose  that  I  shall  ever  see  again  a  snowstorm  like  a  whirling  pillar  moving  between  earth  and  sky  on  the  Border  hills  , or  chance  upon  a  warm  day  in  April  when  the  snow  falls  on  to  the  Black  Mountains  out  of  a  windless  sky  , and  the  bees  are  busy  about  the  flowering  current .sx   But  I  know  that  if  the  habit  of  loitering  in  all  seasons  continues  with  me  I  shall  see  countless  things  as  strange  , and  not  less  unexpected .sx