I''VE NO IDEA how it organises itself nowadays, but the pecking order of my childhood was pretty well defined - the more so because Blairlogie, being tiny, tended to be a bit short on children. Broadly speaking, we divided into three groups; top dogs were those near or just beyond school-leaving age (14 in those days), next came those in the pre-teen bracket and, bottom of the pile, were the wee pains who got under everyone''s feet and ran off to clype on any who attempted forcibly to remove them. At the time of which I write, my pals and I formed the second tier and were, therefore, privy to any "worldly wisdom" passed down to us by the big lads. Some of this was decidedly dodgy but, more by good luck than good judgement, no lasting harm befell us. Some was useful and, just occasionally, some was of much interest. Into this last category came intelligence of a great swimming-hole up on Sheriffmuir.
The first of many treks took place two or three years after the war''s end; in fact, it was probably 1947, which was a cracker of a summer - day after day of hot, high sun. We could have saved on distance by going up Blairlogie Glen and striking out over the moor before reaching the little road that would lead us to our goal, but we had been ordered by parents to stick to the tarmac (well, whin dust) all the way - something with which we had absolutely no problem. Just three years previously, one of the "big lads" from the village had been killed and another badly damaged as a result of the former finding and fooling about with a high explosive shell - criminally left lying around after a Home Guard exercise on Sheriffmuir. From that moment, and for many years thereafter, we were deeply suspicious of the heather and nothing would have persuaded us to walk across it for any distance.
Having agreed to cycle, the first problem to overcome was that we could only raise three bikes for the six of us intent on undertaking this trip into the unknown; but, since each of these had a crossbar, it wasn''t all that big a problem. In the immediate post-war years, the main road along to Logie was, for long periods throughout the day, blissfully free of traffic, so, despite our fairly prolonged wobbling, we came to no harm and soon we were tackling the wee road up to Broomhill and beyond - steep and unforgiving then as now. We were fit as fleas but even the luxury of a Sturmey-Archer three-speed was no match for that hill, especially when we had passengers, so we walked up, democratically sharing bike-wheeling chores. And that set a pattern for the rest of the journey which is nearly all uphill: while three walked, the others would cycle for a pre-arranged length of time, dump the bikes at the roadside (with impunity in those days) and then start walking; the first three, meanwhile, having reached the transport, would mount up and, again, cycle for an agreed period, overtaking the second lot of walkers in the process; and so it went on. Watches were kind of thin on the ground in those far-off days, so I''m not quite sure how we measured cycling time - perhaps we just counted up to a given number; it worked, however we did it. (Of course the return was a doddle - three bikes and their six passengers fleein'' downhill virtually all the way.) Once we''d located our marker (the rather dilapidated southern entrance to Cauldhame), the bikes were slung over the roadside wall to keep them out of sight of ... in truth, I don''t know; it was just a childhood instinct transmitted to us by the "big lads". A dash of a couple of minutes down a grassy field and there, sun reflecting off its surface, was our goal - Paradise Pool.
I''ve no idea who first gave it the name, but he or she was spot-on. Part of the Wharry Burn, the pool has been formed by the scouring action of the water which, after leaving a small, rocky gorge, plunges into an area of sand and gravel thus forming a perfectly graded swimming-hole, deepest at the burn''s entry point and shallowest at its exit. And, as if that isn''t enough, it also boasts a mini-flume formed by years of watery activity smoothing the rock surface down which the burn tumbles into this special place; and it really is special. Sheltered by grassy banks (with some quite high points from which bolder spirits can leap into the waters below) and with a warm sun beating down, to describe it as Paradise is no exaggeration. Imagine how six not terribly big laddies, hot and well trauchled after nigh on three miles of walking and cycling uphill, felt when they saw this place for the first time. We were hooked. For years to come, no summer was complete without several trips to Paradise Pool.
Knowing that it was my intention to write this piece and not having been there since my own children were small - well over 30 years ago - I thought I''d better pay a visit to refresh the memory. The day was bright but cold (we were, after all, only two-thirds through March) and the Wharry Burn was running high with snow melt which had turned the friendly flume of summertime into something wild and kind of threatening, but, in all other ways, the magic is still there; well ... almost.
Back in 1947, the footprint of man fell relatively lightly on Sheriffmuir; sure, Cocksburn Reservoir had been around for a long time, but there would have been, for instance, few (if any) of the patches of uniformly dark and drear conifers that blight today''s panorama and it was still a few years before work would start on the 132kV Beauly to Denny powerline - let alone what some wish to impose on it now! - that so scars what is, after all, the nearest we have to a local wild place. As I stood looking about me, I wished the eyes of the child of 60 years ago had registered how things were then in the way those of the elderly man he has become sees them now (albeit with the aid of specs). But it''s all too late