Dulsie Bridge

Yesterday I drove my mother over to see friends in the land east of the Cantrays by Dulsie Bridge where the Findhorn makes an awesome fuss pouring through a short dog-leg canyon a few miles south of Cawdor. I drove her along Wade's well laid military roads for nearly forty miles to and from Inverarnie; lots of time to talk; hardly another car our whole journey. At the bridge, with its empty visitor car park and earnest signage emphasising English colonisation and military domination, we had the sights and sounds to ourselves. The dogs scurried up and down the steep slopes above the torrent; heather, aspen, birch and rowan. Mum with her Swedish pusher, that doesn't balk at uneven surfaces like all the British makes, didn't have to bother with a wheel-chair. We gazed contentedly on the peat brown waters of the Findhorn while Bibi and Lulu harried the local rabbits. "I can't get over how many moles there are" I muttered, observing fresh mole hills on every grassy surface I'd seen. "One mole goes a long way" said Mum. A fighter plane, probably from Lossiemouth, swept overhead.