By yon bonnie banks, by yon bonnie braes...

Loch Ness may be the most famous body of water in the world, but Loch Lomond--just a brief 45-minute train ride from the urban chaos of Glasgow--is arguably the most romantic. Straddling the border between the western Lowlands and the southern Highlands, Loch Lomond is surrounded by snow-capped Munros, old-growth deciduous and Scotch pine forests, and quaint villages. It wasn't until the last week of my semester in Scotland that I could be arsed to make a visit to the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond, and after my day trip, I was cross with myself for waiting so long to see one of the more breathtaking landscapes that Scotland has to offer. Should any of you make the trip to Alba in the future, make sure to plan a few days around Loch Lomond and the Trossachs; you won't regret it.

The overwhelming beauty of the area (for which I promise I'll offer proof) has long been fodder for folk musicians and poets alike. Probably the most famous ode to the majesty of the loch is a folk song first published in the mid-nineteenth century. There are many interpretations of the lyrics of the song, but my favorite paints the "The Bonnie Banks o' Loch Lomond" as an elegy sung by a condemned Jacobite soldier to a younger soldier who will escape execution.

Oh, ye'll tak' the high road, and I'll tak' the low road,
And I'll be in Scotland afore ye;
But me and my true love will never meet again
On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond

Naturally, this song is a favorite among patriotic young Scots and is often sung after football or rugby victories, along with "Flowers of Scotland." My favorite rendition of the song is performed by Runrig, a Scottish band from the Isle of Skye. Formed in the 1970s, Runrig were the first musicians to find both commercial success and critical acclaim by incorporating Gaelic lyrics into their songs. Below is a video of Runrig performing "Loch Lomond" at Glasgow's Barrowlands venue. (Yes, the hair, the clothes, and the synthesizer are cringe-worthy. Sweet tap-dancing Jesus, the 80s were garish.)


Well, now that we've temporarily satisfied my yen for 80s music of questionable artistic value, I suppose it's only fair to show you what could inspire such a sweet serenade. Photos, ahoy!



En route to the village of Balloch, the train passed through the village of Bowling, which sits at the terminal end of the Forth and Clyde Canal (hence the boats). Bowling also represents the northern limit of the Roman empire, resting at the western end of the Antonine Wall, erected in the second century A.D. during the reign of Antoninus Pius. The wall and its associated garrisons and forts were intended to keep the Caledonian savages from raiding the Central Belt of Scotland, but ultimately proved ineffective and were soon abandoned. On the morning that I went to Balloch, the sun was slow to break through the clouds that had settled over the country the preceding week. Fortunately, the sky cleared by the time I got to the loch.

Those of you who have been following along in the blog will have noticed that I have a knack for scheduling trips during golf tournaments; apparently, I have a similar faculty for locating all of the angry swans in Scotland. Remember my friends on the banks of West Sands beach in St. Andrews? It seems they have cousins.



The Loch Lomond population of swans saw me as a person of interest; their fearless leader--a cocky young cygnet, as at St. Andrews--began plodding toward the walking trail, his beady eyes fixed on me. Perhaps he thought I possessed foodstuffs, or was attracted by the gleaming metal case of my camera. Or maybe, just maybe, he knew I would shriek like a little girl and run away the second he took an inquisitive nip of my hand. (In my defense, the average swan is quite intimidating, weighing in at ~25 lbs., so I feel wholly justified in sprinting down the jogging path whilst screaming, "Run away, he has a taste for human flesh!")



This is how the crafty buggers get away with it. They use their dashing good looks to lure you into a false sense of security. Evil isn't supposed to be wrapped up in a pretty package. (Swans are like Ted Bundy in that respect.)



I found refuge from my feathered assailants in the forest that abutted the loch's shores. I spent most of my trip to Loch Lomond surveying the grounds for unique collecting sites, sampling detritus from peat bogs, tree knots, and stream banks. I also found the leaf litter to be rich in macrofungal diversity, and after some haphazard searching I chanced upon some stunning specimens of Aleuria aurantia, the Orange Peel fungus.


My final weeks in Glasgow were dark, cold, and dreary; I like to think Scotland was just as upset at my leaving as I was. (Why, yes, I am an anthropomorphizing fool.) Fortunately, the gloom was lifted for the several hours I spent plodding along the loch.


Perhaps what I love most about Scotland are the colors. The quality of the sunlight in Scotland--when you get it, that is--beats anything I've seen in the States. In the absence of clouds, the sunlight gilds each leaf, rock and blade of grass, lending a golden halo to that which will never ascend to heaven. (You'll have to forgive me. Experiencing the Scottish countryside is the closest I've had to a religious experience.)


A lovely shot of the loch and the surrounding fells.


Every so often, when the winds are calm and the waters still, I'm lucky enough to get one of these reflection shots. I've got several of these from my travels around the UK and Ireland, but this one remains one of my favorites.


Finally, a parting shot of Ben Lomond as the sun sets over Balloch. (I offered bits of my sultana flapjack to the seagulls for lining up like pretty maids all in a row. They were not impressed. Bloody ingrates.)