Before the Swallows Come Back by Fiona Curnow

Author:Fiona Curnow [Curnow, Fiona]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-07-01T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter 41

Dougie was looking forward to getting back to work. He'd been away for a couple of weeks on a course about land-management and rewilding. The two working hand in hand. It had been good. Interesting. And he would be able to put a lot of what he had learned into practise. Build for the future. He had picked up Gypsy from the kennels – not really kennels as such, but a farmer who was happy to take his dog in when the need arose.

'Aye, I'll take that one off your hands any time. Great wee dug, so he is. Just you say the word and he can join my lot.'

'Surprised at you still asking, Jock. He's so not for sale. I'd sooner give you my wife, if I had one.'

A shared laugh and a friendly handshake.

He was enjoying the slow walk across the brow of the hill. Gypsy bounding ahead excited to be back on home territory, circling back to check his master was there, and off again. Smells. Dougie found himself wondering what that must be like. Your world filled with knowledge and understanding by what was carried on the breeze, trailed in the undergrowth. He smiled at the sheer enjoyment of it all. Nose down, nose up, tail beating, tongue lolling, breath panting. Gypsy came back and clung to his heels, looking timid. Nervous. That was peculiar.

'What is it boy?' He ruffled the dog's neck. Lifted his own head high to the breeze. A whiff of something bitter mixed with the pine, the forest. Unpleasant. A trace of smoke that didn't smell like a camp-fire. There was more to it than that. It carried petrol, rubber, and there was the high drone of machinery.

He whistled softly to Gypsy and they headed down the hill to investigate further. He walked up-river to where the water narrowed and deepened and the little wooden bridge stretched over it. As he crossed into Craigdour land he reminded himself of the need to replace this. The wood was crumbling. Dangerous.

He stared in disbelief. There, in front of him, the scar on the hill. The felling of trees, but not just trees. Ancient woodland that had stood for centuries. Irreplaceable. And in the place of the Tinker camp that had been there every summer for as long as he could remember was a stain. Scorched land. Something monumental was happening and it felt so very wrong. He toyed with the idea of striding up to the Craigdour estate office. Demanding an explanation. No. Better to go forewarned. The laird. He would know.

He knocked on the door of the Manor. Muffled noises grew clearer. The familiar footsteps of the laird, slower now, accompanied by the click of a walking stick, but recognizable nonetheless. He would open the door, as always, dressed in his tweed plus-fours and matching jacket, highly polished brogues, a smile hiding behind his waxed white moustache, a twinkle in his grey eyes. He was such a dichotomy. His looks shouting hunting and arrogance, his nature so far from that.

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