Gairloch.
They carved a foundation at the base of Ben Lymond. Using the topography God gave them, they created a foundation and quarried the yellow-white stone for the building. Three years passed before a roof was erected and the first clan member moved into the fortified structure. In the next twenty years, when they weren’t warring to protect the land and their country, they continued to build.
In 1592, the castle was complete, in the era of the Duke of Lennox and his men who were allowed, by decree of the Scottish Parliament, to root out the inhabitants of the Highlands. If slaughter was necessary, so be it.
The Imrie Clan looked to their fortifications, added two more wings and three more towers to Gairloch. The road was redesigned to be winding and circuitous, giving full warning to the inhabitants that a visitor approached.
No one, least of all the Imrie Clan, ever called the massive building they’d constructed a castle. Instead, it had been called Gairloch from the first stone laid on the foundation by its warlike laird.
As the final stone was set into place, a piper played a pìobaireachd in honor of the men who’d died in the construction of Gairloch, and for those who would die in the future for the sake of the clan.
Die they did. As the generations continued, they each gave their blood sacrifice to Scotland, to the Highlands, to the very land on which Gairloch had been raised. The earth itself seemed to demand it, and these hardy Scots resolutely and with great respect surrendered their husbands, sons, and brothers first to clan warfare, then to the endless battles with the English.
A hundred years ago, the last battle had been fought, and with it came a sigh of relief throughout Scotland and Invergaire Glen. The time had come for a respite, for a period to nurse her wounds, breed sons in decimated clans, and plan for the future.
Gairloch had weathered the years well. When people passed, many miles away, they viewed a bit of magic. The deep green of Scottish pines gave way to the sight of the huge building of yellow stone with Ben Lymond at its back.
Even from a distance, Gairloch looked proud, as if it knew its own history.
Tales were told of the ferocious lairds who’d guarded Gairloch for generations. In this place in the Highlands, the members of the Imrie Clan had earned their reputations.
Now, only two were left heirs of Gairloch: Fergus and his sister, Shona.
H elen was gawking.
“It’s a good hour until we reach Gairloch,” Shona said. “I know it looks closer, but that’s because of Gairloch’s size.”
“You didn’t tell me it was so . . . huge,” Helen said, her voice filled with awe.
Gairloch had five towers and from a distance looked like a massive round structure. Instead, four wings had been built around the original square keep. The castle was a labyrinth of corridors and hallways, some connecting, but most managing to confound a visitor.
As a child, she’d wondered if Gairloch had been built with confusion in mind. Her father had verified her guess. “In case they were ever invaded, the original Imries had wanted to ensure their clan didn’t perish.”
“One could get lost,” Helen said now.
She smiled. “I did when I was little. Fergus and I learned, quick enough, to remain in the public rooms. Gairloch is cold most of the time. It’s best to stay near a fireplace.”
Loch Mor glittered in the distance, a mirror for the sun. The hills of Invergaire Glen were purple with heather. Both sights were a greeting, as well as a reminder of how long since she’d been home. Seven years, to be exact, ever since her marriage, but it seemed as if nothing had changed.
“What’s that?”
She knew what Helen had seen before she looked. On the other side of the glen sat another house, not nearly so grand, but proud in its way. Built a hundred years ago, of the same yellow stone as Gairloch, the house looked like a smaller, plainer brother.
“That’s where Colonel
They carved a foundation at the base of Ben Lymond. Using the topography God gave them, they created a foundation and quarried the yellow-white stone for the building. Three years passed before a roof was erected and the first clan member moved into the fortified structure. In the next twenty years, when they weren’t warring to protect the land and their country, they continued to build.
In 1592, the castle was complete, in the era of the Duke of Lennox and his men who were allowed, by decree of the Scottish Parliament, to root out the inhabitants of the Highlands. If slaughter was necessary, so be it.
The Imrie Clan looked to their fortifications, added two more wings and three more towers to Gairloch. The road was redesigned to be winding and circuitous, giving full warning to the inhabitants that a visitor approached.
No one, least of all the Imrie Clan, ever called the massive building they’d constructed a castle. Instead, it had been called Gairloch from the first stone laid on the foundation by its warlike laird.
As the final stone was set into place, a piper played a pìobaireachd in honor of the men who’d died in the construction of Gairloch, and for those who would die in the future for the sake of the clan.
Die they did. As the generations continued, they each gave their blood sacrifice to Scotland, to the Highlands, to the very land on which Gairloch had been raised. The earth itself seemed to demand it, and these hardy Scots resolutely and with great respect surrendered their husbands, sons, and brothers first to clan warfare, then to the endless battles with the English.
A hundred years ago, the last battle had been fought, and with it came a sigh of relief throughout Scotland and Invergaire Glen. The time had come for a respite, for a period to nurse her wounds, breed sons in decimated clans, and plan for the future.
Gairloch had weathered the years well. When people passed, many miles away, they viewed a bit of magic. The deep green of Scottish pines gave way to the sight of the huge building of yellow stone with Ben Lymond at its back.
Even from a distance, Gairloch looked proud, as if it knew its own history.
Tales were told of the ferocious lairds who’d guarded Gairloch for generations. In this place in the Highlands, the members of the Imrie Clan had earned their reputations.
Now, only two were left heirs of Gairloch: Fergus and his sister, Shona.
H elen was gawking.
“It’s a good hour until we reach Gairloch,” Shona said. “I know it looks closer, but that’s because of Gairloch’s size.”
“You didn’t tell me it was so . . . huge,” Helen said, her voice filled with awe.
Gairloch had five towers and from a distance looked like a massive round structure. Instead, four wings had been built around the original square keep. The castle was a labyrinth of corridors and hallways, some connecting, but most managing to confound a visitor.
As a child, she’d wondered if Gairloch had been built with confusion in mind. Her father had verified her guess. “In case they were ever invaded, the original Imries had wanted to ensure their clan didn’t perish.”
“One could get lost,” Helen said now.
She smiled. “I did when I was little. Fergus and I learned, quick enough, to remain in the public rooms. Gairloch is cold most of the time. It’s best to stay near a fireplace.”
Loch Mor glittered in the distance, a mirror for the sun. The hills of Invergaire Glen were purple with heather. Both sights were a greeting, as well as a reminder of how long since she’d been home. Seven years, to be exact, ever since her marriage, but it seemed as if nothing had changed.
“What’s that?”
She knew what Helen had seen before she looked. On the other side of the glen sat another house, not nearly so grand, but proud in its way. Built a hundred years ago, of the same yellow stone as Gairloch, the house looked like a smaller, plainer brother.
“That’s where Colonel
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