I paced the pavement anxiously, stomach churning as I checked the Midland Bluebird bus tracker again. The bus still hadn’t moved from the station. I was starting to look like a nutter, pacing in circles on Dumbarton Road, waiting for a bus that might well never come as the afternoon trickled away from me, taking the possibility of the day with it. I should have left earlier. Why did I stay in on such a beautiful morning? What had I been waiting for? At this rate, I’d have to find a way to enjoy the sunshine from Stirling city centre, a feat that always left me feeling grimy and unsatisfied.
In my hand was a little pink book, titled “Weekend Walks: Stirling and Falkirk”, by Nick Drainey. Nick had written promises of cascading waterfalls nestled in the hillside of Gargunnock – the idea of which was now cruelly taunting me in the absence of the X10 bus service. Clouds hurried across a fading sky, the sunshine which had drawn me from my little flat in the search for an adventure now buggering off to disrupt some other sun-starved student’s day.
The minutes flew past, carried by a wind that was picking up. I was debating shouldering my loaded backpack to retreat to my comfy confines once more as the X10 finally flew around the corner and screeched to a halt. The flustered bus driver welcomed me on board, apologies about various technical failures and bus movements flying around her head. No matter now – there was a side quest to be had.
That’s what I like to consider these random abandonments in the countryside – side quests. Outwith the ever-so-slightly mundane traipse of university life, there will always be a more exciting side quest to be had – henceforth the creation of alfresco diaries, because these times are just simply too thrilling to be kept to myself (if you smell sarcasm, it’s because I’m being sarcastic).
Within ten short minutes, I found myself in the baffling village of Gargunnock, feeling rather transported back in both time and space. I grew up in a small Cornish village, 600 miles south of Stirling, which I haven’t returned to for four years, and yet somehow I was back. In front of me stood Trelawny cottage, which I assumed to be named after the hero of ‘The Song of the Western Men’ (you know it – “and shall Trelawny live…or shall Trelawny die? Maybe it’s just a Cornish thing). It was proud and beaming in the now-returned sunshine, nostalgia wafting from the house sign. Baffled, I looked around me to see the most wonderfully quaint, family-friendly, community-focused village that felt pulled straight from an Enid Blyton novel.
In a mix of awe and mild confusion, I began to follow Nick’s precise, yet niche, directions.
“Go right just before a national speed limit sign to climb up an increasingly rough-surfaced track.”
The town council must have been at work to protect the wonderful peace of Gargunnock, as I could only see a 40 mph speed limit sign. Hoping for the best, I turned right into the land of the most beautiful homes one could imagine coming across. It was a world apart compared to my slightly grotty student living – I didn’t ever want to leave. I pondered knocking on one of the doors and requesting a house tour, but figured dragging mud and sweat through a stranger’s home was a sure way to end up on a Gargunnock black list.
I pressed on up the hill, admiring a particularly fancy house as I went and planning what I would do, with the huge amount of money that I obviously have, to build a swimming pool and alter the driveway accordingly.
Sheep, gorse, trees, sun. The sun! It had returned to scorn me once more. This time, rather than make me envious of the gorgeous day outside, it wanted me to die of heat stroke. Beating down onto my unprotected arms, I could almost hear it goading me;
“Red-headed fool, leaving the house on a sunny day. Burn, fool. Suffer. Sweat so much that you’ll have no choice but to finally wash that bra you’ve been wearing for two weeks. Fool.”
In protest, I continued to follow Nick’s instructions, leading me past clumps of striking, blossoming gorse, the coconut smell making me hungry for the controversial confectionery, bounties. Alas, no bounties were to be found. Instead?
The waterfall.
It looked…slightly underwhelming. I realised we hadn’t had much rain as of late, which is sort of a fundamental requirement for a flowing waterfall.
Easing myself ungracefully down the boulders, I surveyed the waterfall further. My swimming gear, packed in the hope of a plunge pool, weighed on my back as mossy rocks kicked water back up into my face before it trickled down the slope. A damp cave framed the falls, covered in a jungle of ferns and flowers unknown to me. In a way – no, not in a way – this waterfall was another world. The damp, slick moss underfoot, the grasses that thrived in the absence of livestock, the weird and wild ferns reaching arms towards the permanent rain that they call home. It was its own wee world, tucked above Gargunnock, untouched by the weight of current politics, Aldi at 5.30 pm on a weekday, or the Jeremy Vine show.
Life would definitely be better as a waterfall fern.
And on that note, I confidently stripped off my sweaty walking clothes (keeping a close eye out for any perving onlookers) in favour of my optimistically packed swimsuit. Wobbling on the slick moss, mud already somehow smeared up my calves, I made my way ungracefully to the waterfall.
Confidence, confidence. Surely no one has ever drowned in the shower – this is the same thing, right?
Wrong.
For a start, a shower is typically slightly warm and usually has a disappointing yet manageable water pressure.
Ice water thundered onto my exposed shoulders, drenching me in a matter of seconds. I fought the weight of it to remain upright, surveying the landscape before me. All of a sudden, it didn’t matter that I had two essays due, that my tummy was sticking out in this swimsuit, and that I had been subjected to the Jeremy Vine show on multiple occasions. The weight of the water flushed all the nonsense crap from my system – all I knew was cold, fresh, heavy water, and the patchwork landscape laid out before me.
Gold, green, blue, and bronze muddled together in an artistic masterpiece that we call Stirlingshire. Mountains framed the horizon, hazy in the afternoon warmth. Little toy cars driven by little toy people wizzed by miles below, hurried by matters that don’t merit concern. It made me feel very small in the world. What mattered more than this? What mattered more than escaping it all to have a nature-driven epiphany about life?
But then I got cold, and I decided that nature did not provide hot showers (at least, not in Scotland) or chocolate biscuits, which my 5.30 pm Aldi adventure had thankfully afforded me.
All things come in proportion. There’s just a knack to finding the balance.
Enjoyed the first instalment of Alfresco Diaries? Keep an eye out for next month’s article here.
Alfresco Diaries is Braw Magazine’s new monthly column, written by Alice Pollard, exploring personal connections to nature in an attempt to narrate frequent side-quests in Stirlingshire and beyond. Travel, soft adventure, and nature writing combine to reveal the story that comes from every trip beyond our front doors.
Featured Image Credit: Alice Pollard
Journalism student at the University of Stirling & BRAW Magazine editor 24/25 and 25/26 🙂
You can see my portfolio here: https://www.clippings.me/alicepollard
