Haunted Scotland by Roddy Martine

business on the great waters;
    These men see the works of the Lord,
    and his wonders in the deep.
    Book of Psalms
    Psalm 106: 23–24
    The sea is a hard taskmaster, and Scotland’s ragged coastline, with its harbours, beaches, secret inlets and hidden coves, has known more than its fair share of
misfortune. It is a cruel and uncompromising existence and they who live by its shores to earn a living from its depths are invariably possessed with a deal of stoicism which the rest of us can
only marvel at.
    The Cowal Peninsula lodges between the mouth of the Firth of Clyde and Loch Fyne in southern Argyll, a coastal landscape punctuated by opulent Victorian villas and yachting marinas. Despite the
half-hour ferries ploughing backwards and forwards between Gourock and Dunoon, Cowal can often feel strangely detached from the rest of Scotland.
    South of Dunoon, on Loch Striven, is Inverchaolain Lodge, a former shooting lodge on the Knockdow estate which I visited in Chapter One. Richly forested, this hidden corner
of Scotland played an important role in meeting the desperate demand for timber during the First World War. Over this difficult period, Inverchaolain Lodge was requisitioned for the Women’s
Land Army Timber Corps and from 1941, some thirty or more patriotic young women were stationed here to fell trees and assist at the local sawmill.
    And it was early in 1943 that one such recruit found herself returning from weekend leave a day early. Ordinarily, she would have stayed overnight in Dunoon, but despite knowing that she would
be the first of her group to arrive, she decided instead to cycle the ten or more miles to the lodge.
    The moon was rising as she set off, and its mellow light cast an eerie glow over the seascape. As she pedalled past Loch Striven, she heard the grey seals barking on the shoreline. Deep in the
forest, the trees rustled and sighed. Small animals scurried into the undergrowth.
    When she arrived, Inverchaolain Lodge was empty as she had expected. She briskly stored her bicycle in the shed and fetched the front-door key from its usual hiding place. Since the cook had
not, as yet, returned, the lodge kitchen was chilly and bare, so she went straight to her bed. But as she lay warm beneath her blanket listening to the hush of the loch outside, she saw the bedroom
door open and shut, and heard a soft swishing sound. ‘It sounded like fabric sweeping across the floor,’ she recalled.
    Frozen stiff in her army cot, she could hear her heart pounding, all the more so when a dim, shadowy figure glided over to the window. It appeared to be a young woman, who stopped in front of
the glass to gaze out towards the loch. She looked so sadand moaned unhappily before turning around to exit through the closed door.
    Uncertain what to do next, the recruit lay mesmerised under her covers until she eventually found the courage to rally herself. With a Tilley lamp to light her way, she cautiously ventured
downstairs into the hallway below and, glancing out of the window onto a moonlit lawn, saw an extraordinary sight.
    Where the bicycle shed normally stood was a thatched cottage covered in roses. The garden too was full of lovely flowers. In front of the cottage door stood the same woman she had seen upstairs.
Beside her was a young man wearing knee-breeches and a cut-away jacket.
    He was kissing her goodbye and the girl was sobbing. As the young man turned to walk towards the loch, a small fishing boat appeared on the horizon. As it drew close to the shore, the loch
turned suddenly wild and stormy, with huge waves dashing onto the shingle.
    As the recruit watched in astonishment, she could see the girl striding backwards and forwards along the shoreline, wringing her hands in sorrow. Then suddenly both she and the cottage faded
away and the shed reappeared as if from nowhere.
    When the other trainees arrived the following morning, their colleague gave them a full account of what she had witnessed and was