As for the house, Ard Choille wasn’t looking its best, but the villagers, having saved it from the fire, had plans for its future. They had a mind to try and achieve Lord Main’s dream of a wildlife centre with the birch house at its heart.

It appeared their wish might come true, he thought, as he drew closer. For the birds that hadn’t taken off for warmer climes had decided to make Ard Choille their winter home.

The balconies and walkways no longer rang with party voices and clinking glasses, but with the fluttering of wings and the songs of its resident birds.

Blackrig Revisited

By Maya Villan

The area of the graveyard where the children and their nurse are buried is surrounded by a white fence. Nearby is a seat where those who loved them can watch over them for a while.

Beyond the stone wall that circles the cemetery are the trees. The scent of pine is fresh and sharp in the December air. I’d forgotten how wonderful that scent was.

Sitting there, I imagine the burials, one after another, swift and without ceremony for fear of crowds and the mutating virus that stole their young lives.

Today, at last, the people of Blackrig will come together to commemorate those they lost. They will follow their age-old tradition of walking en masse behind a piper, from the church along Main Street and into the woods and from there to the cemetery, which wasn’t permitted at the height of the pandemic.

I have chosen not to join them in this walk. I didn’t know the children or their nurse. I was not here when they were taken. This ceremony, I feel, is theirs and theirs alone.

This is why I, an outsider, am here alone now to pay my respects before their arrival.

Just beyond the little graveyard, another stone has been raised. This one is for a child that was loved, named, but never born.

Mac Campbell Taylor.

If you have been following the blog on Blackrig, you will know how much the raising of that headstone means to his mother, Caroline.

My story of Blackrig is coming to an end. I will miss writing about this place, these woods, the hills that surround it. Most of all, I will miss writing about the people who call it home.

Rising from the seat, with a little difficulty because of my ever-increasing bump, I’ve decided to visit the green man and green woman and their assorted woodland creatures.

Arriving in the fairy glen, I can see that yet another carving has been installed during my time away. I know who it is, although I never got to meet her.

Ailsa, her long hair flowing, sits on a tree trunk, her sketch pad in hand.