CHAPTER XXII THE FINDHORN 



I DO not know a stream that more completely real- 

 izes all one's ideas of the beauty of Highland scenery 

 than the Findhorn, taking it from the spot where it 

 is no more than a small rivulet, bubbling and spark- 

 ling along a narrow gorge in the far-off recesses of the 

 Monadh-liath mountains, down to the Bay of Findhorn, 

 where its accumulated waters are poured into the Moray 

 Firth. From source to mouth, this river is full of beauty 

 and interest. 



On a bright August day, the 6th of the month, I joined 

 a friend in a deer-stalking expedition, near the source of 

 the Findhorn, in the Monadh-liath. We went from near 

 Inverness to ourquarters. For the greatest part of ourway 

 our road was over a flat though elevated range of dreary 

 moor, more interesting to the eye of a grouse-shooter than 

 to any one else. When within a few miles of the end of our 

 journey, the Findhorn came in sight, passing like a silver 

 stripe, edged with bright green, through the brown mount- 

 ains, and sparkling brightly in the evening sun. The sides 

 of the hills immediately overhanging the river are clothed 

 with patches of weeping birch and juniper, with here and 

 there a black hut perched on a green knoll, dotted with 

 groves ofthe rugged and ancient-lookingbirch-trees. About 

 these solitary abodes, too, were small patches of oats and 

 potatoes. The mavis with its joyous note, and the black- 

 bird's occasional full and rich song, greeted us as we passed 

 through these wooded tracts. Sometimes a wood-pigeon 

 would crash through the branches close to us as we wound 

 round some corner of the wood. 



Having arrived at our destination, we made ourselves 

 289 T 



