A dark, autumn morning on the River Devon by Tillicoultry, and the silence in the air is broken by the raucous ‘cronk, cronk’, call of a raven perched upon a bare, skeletal tree.
The raven is a bird shrouded in mystique, associated with death, battle, prophecy and supernatural wisdom.
Yet, they were not always regarded as sinister: in Highland tradition, the raven could also be a bird of knowledge, and its behaviour was sometimes a sign of changing weather.
Further downriver, the wake of a swimming beaver broke the water’s surface and it vanished from view once it had reached the far bank.
The raven took to the air on black-tumbled wings and disappeared over a nearby wooded ridge. This was like a primal scene from the dawn of time and it was truly exhilarating.
As the creeping intensity of daylight gradually took hold, I spotted a young heron resting on a branch above the river.
The heron has long occupied a place in Scottish folklore, and was sometimes associated with supernatural forces, as well as being a sign of prosperity and plentiful fishing.
An old Gaelic saying roughly translates as ‘the heron’s portion comes to its feet’, which reflects upon the bird’s patient approach to hunting and that reward will come to those prepared to wait.
For my return journey, I joined the former railway route that is now the Devon Way and revelled in the beauty of the autumnal colour of the leaves.
The geans, or wild cherries, were especially alluring, their burnished leaves exhibiting pure artistry, shading from ochre to crimson in a shimmering sea of colour.
For such a beautiful tree, it is perplexing that in parts of Scotland folklore warned against using cherry wood for any purpose because it was regarded as a ‘witches’ tree’.
There was also the belief that it was unlucky to bring gean branches indoors.
Despite the sunshine, there was a distinct chill in the air that heralded the approach of winter.
High in the sky a skein of greylag geese carved a ‘v’ formation as they quickly passed over me, their honking calls soon fading into the distance.
A flush of dazzling sulphur tuft toadstools glowed from the base of a rotting tree trunk by the Devon Way edge.
The days might be getting shorter and the leaves are tumbling to the ground at an ever-faster rate, yet there was still plenty of colour around, shining like beacons of defiance to the relentless approach of winter.
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