The rain was relentless, like giant curtains sweeping across the bleak and barren moor, driven by wailing winds. I am in a northerly part of Scotland and my route leads me down into The Slochd, a cleft in the land that, for a few minutes, gives me shelter from the storm raging above. As I scramble out by the east side I see a shape in the rock. It looks like a carved head, wearing what I take to be a Second World War, German soldiers helmet. I am puzzled and muse, what is that and how did it get there? It would not be long before I found out.

I continue my lonely trek over the trackless moor and as I near Carn Allt Laoigh, the day is dimming, as is my spirit. Then, through the gloaming, in the middle of this friendless, isolated place I spy shelter, an old building with a tin roof. As I near I see that the roof was once green, but years of wild weather and beating sun has reduced its earlier brightness into a threadbare, faded replica of its youth. But it was a heaven sent refuge from the incessant storm driven rain. On the lee side, two windows, one on either side of a door that was not quite closed. As I shoved, it creaked and scraped across the floor, suggesting a reluctance to open. I stumbled my rain soaked self into the semi darkness. Bliss, it was dry and out of the storm. In the far wall was a fireplace, embers still red and issuing a little warmth. I fumble for my torch.

I was not alone. Seated on a log next to the fire, illuminated by the feeble light of the dying embers sat a fellow traveller, bedecked in what looked like a tartan plaid, tweed plus four trousers and a blue bonnet. He was calmly drawing on a pipe. How I did not detect the smell earlier, I don’t know. I was certainly detecting it now. I saw he had a mane of unkempt, white hair flowing from under his jaunty bonnet. His whole appearance made him look wild. He fixed me with a sinister stare. He did not speak. I am unsure what to say, then I weakly offer, ‘hello,’ followed by an almost apologetic cough. Time passes. My fellow traveller continues his silence, still holding me in his stare.

Then he leaned forward and, in a careful, calm voice as though not speaking his first language he asks, ‘and where are you bound?’

I nervously answer, speaking too quickly, almost submissively, 'Castle Lochindorb, The Wolf of Badenoch's lair, sir.’

His reply, again deep and controlled, like a schoolmaster,' do you mean Alasdair Mor mac an Righ?' I nod, as though I have been scolded, 'yes.' He looks fixedly at me, unblinking, pauses then in a low, chilling voice;

’Ware of Bridei, she skirts the bounds of Moravia, Lochindorb is her lair.'

I was mesmerised and unable to speak.

'Listen to me,' he commands;

‘In a time long past, The Lord Edward and his armies invaded this land and took it from its rightful owners, the Lords of Badenoch.

Bridei had been charged by her people to protect Moravia and Lochindorb. She witnessed the sacrilege and as she helplessly watched, she made a vow;

“This is our sacred place, they will be punished”.

She remained vigilant and gimlet-eyed. Many moons came and went, still she waited, always watching, always ready.

More than three hundred years later, Cromwell’s forces moved through this land and caused more damage. Bridei patiently watched them from her secret place. Revenge will not be long. She smiled a contented smile and settled to continue her vigil. She knew what she had to do.

Then late one night a terrible blizzard swept through, riding on a near hurricane wind. One of Cromwell’s trespassing soldiers became hopelessly lost and detached from his colleagues.

It was Bridei’s time.

She moved to his side and offered to take him to a safe place out of the storm. In her shelter she nourished him. She was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. He had a new bride at home, but Bridei had charisma and it was not long before he was bewitched and under her spell. She lay with him and soon he forgot his bride and his purpose and succumbed to her charms.

As time passed and winter moved into spring, the soldier was still with Bridei, with no desire to go back to his soldier ways. One quiet night, under a full moon, Bredei took him to the loch and bathed him. When in the water, she, in an instant transformed to her true form, Ban-druidh, the enchantress and sorceress. He was powerless and as she held him under the water, he pleaded and begged for his life, reminding Bridei about his new bride. Bridei appeared to sympathise with the soldier, now helplessly in her power.

She lifted him from the loch and spoke. Trust me, she said,

“trust me and you will live. I will take you to a safe place where you will be able to look out for your bride and you will see things, wonderful things. You will see iron fire chariots, you will see Kings and Queens and armies. And some will come and try to take this land again and you will know them. You will wear the clothing of one of these invading armies and when you see them you will tell me, you will tell me everything, because I demand it. That safe place, we call,’Sloc'. You will be the eyes of my people for ever, our sentinel. You have chosen life and I have given you life, your punishment is to be petrified and your vigil will be eternal.”

In my mesmerised state that night, so long ago, and with the drone of his carefully speaking voice, I must have drifted into a deep sleep. When I awoke, the sun was streaming in the small square window and I could hear birds outside. Of my visitor, I could see nothing. To keep the door secure from the wind on my arrival, I had jammed a length of wood through a slot in the door to a an internal wooden post in the wall. In the morning I had to remove it to get the door open. The smell of mildew and tobacco lingered.

To this very day, Bredei, defender of her people’s land, protector of Lochindorb, moves like a wraith through Badenoch and over moors and to the Slochd, observing her sentinel, who continues his infinitive vigil on her behalf, wearing the headdress of a tribe who brought war to this country.

And as you pass, glance over, give him a thought and ponder;

‘Does he still seek his bride?’

The Slochd is about fifteen miles south of Inverness, Scotland, on the A9 trunk road. As described, it is a defile in the hills that conveniently allows both the A9 Road and Highland Railway room to pass. On the east side of the road is a steep rock face. One of the small outcrops looks remarkably like a human head, wearing a World War Two German soldiers helmet. What is it and how did it get there? Was it carved, is it a naturally occurring mimetolith or is there another explanation?

Well, I have given you the answer.

One thing is unquestionable, once you have seen it you will never forget it.

Safe journeys.

The Sentinel

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