Poet's Glen, Currie

Summer, fareweel, wi’ a’ your flow’rs,

Fareweel to a’ your sunny show’rs;

An’ fareweel a’ ye birken bow’rs,

Wi’ leaves sae green

James Thomson (from ‘The Departure of Summer’)

As I cross the bridge over the river, I look up and see Currie Kirk ahead. Following in the direction of my gaze, I climb the steps to join the Water of Leith walkway, heading downstream - but I am not for the beaten path today.

After a short way, as the new housing development looms, a sign marked ‘To the Pentland Hills’ invites me to divert off uphill to the right. I follow it, the sound of the cascading waters of the Kinleith Burn filling my ears.

I am entering the ‘Poet’s Glen’. Named after Currie’s own weaver-poet, James Thomson (1763 - 1832). This short, quiet walk retraces Thomson’s steps, incorporating elements of the nature and local farming life that inspired his verse.

It's humid and I feel the weight of foliage all around me. Brambles burgeon, fruit forming. On my right, a small metal bridge traverses the burn, but I continue straight on, going up more steps until I emerge at Blinkbonny Road, which I follow round a bend to the right. Just as the road begins to straighten out, I cross and take a rough stony track leading up between a stone wall and the adjacent field. Blue tits alarm in the hedgerow as I pass. The path lies lower than the field, giving me a hare’s-eye view - first of grassy pasture, then of the golden barley of Lennox Lea - ripe for harvest, ears bending under their own weight as if reflecting, heads bowed, upon the summer past and the harvest to come.

After a while, the track leads me through a gap in the wall and the sound of rushing water returns. I emerge by a secluded pond fringed by tall trees and step onto a little wooden bridge over the small spillway that feeds the burn. I stare down into the clear, still water where minnows dart, and, lulled, become lost in my thoughts, cradled within this green crucible. Over to my left, a blizzard of small flies hangs in a chaotic cloud over the water. Mesmerised, I begin to trace the path of individual insects and find that, in fact, each is following purposely a path back and forth, only when superimposed does the movement appear random. Order emerges from chaos.

Squawk! I start and look up to see a heron alight with unexpected deftness in high branches beyond. I set off again and skirt around the pond, passing beneath mature beeches, the route now bordering fields to my left. A young family of wrens alight on a sycamore stump, the young calling incessantly. In low hazel, I notice nuts are beginning to form. A robin chastises me from a nearby holly bush, as if to portray the voice of future winter, reminding me that summer can’t last forever.

I emerge onto what is the eastern end of Harlaw Road and go right, crossing a stone bridge over the burn before passing the farmstead at Middle Kinleith, once Thomson’s home. This is now a gentle country lane stroll, fields on either side - the Pentland skyline to my left, that of the awakening city distant to my right. Swallows arc overhead, making the most of the insect bounty, for in a few short weeks, like summer, they too must depart. A rabbit hops hesitantly across the road ahead. I turn right to descend the hill at Kirkgate. Within the hedgerow it is written that the season is turning a corner too. Blossoms of chamomile crowd on the field’s fringes, air thick with their calming scent, each yellow centre bright as a miniature summer sun. Meanwhile, rose hips shine in deepest maple-leaf red by the road.

The vista of our city spreads out before me, warming in the morning light, shaking off a misty blanket. Human bustle grows as I descend towards the village, until the welcoming sight of Currie Kirk greets me once more, standing steadfast within the churchyard.

Like the seasons, I have come full circle, back to where I started. Following time in contemplation here, where Thomson wove his cloth and his words, I feel ready to embrace the season’s change and look forward to autumn’s arrival with natural wonders all its own. As for summer, I bid it a fond farewell - leaving the last words to Thomson:

[I] hope again to see the day

I’ll lift mine eyes,

Where light shines in its purest ray,

Beyond the skies.

---

Published in Konect September 2023

Author: William Weir

All photos by William Weir