POSTSCRIPT

It's five years since I last spent time in Strathfarrar and the glens and, since then, there have been changes. The people I met grow older and some are gone.

Donald the Blue Charm died in hospital at the age of 93, felled by a stroke. His brother Duncan – ‘Dunky Affric’ to all, Old Duncan as I have called him – is frail but as I write lives on at 99, having seen his memoir My Yester Years in Glen Affaric published locally to acclaim. It's now in its second edition – a delightful account of a stalker's life in past times, in harmony with the outdoors. Duncan's son John – ‘Johnny Affric’ – though semi-retired, still goes out on the hill. Another John, founder of the Cougie dynasty, who was unwell when I last met him, has died.

Sister Petra Clare, ‘hermit iconographer’ as she styles herself, has had to scale down her vision of a colony of hermitages centred on the church at Marydale. I suspect that the Church authorities were cool. Much of her effort now is devoted to setting up a charity to promote links between the western Catholic and eastern Orthodox churches and she is also concerned with encouraging what she calls the liturgical arts – everything pertaining to the ornamentation of churches from vestments and altar cloths to silverware. And she continues to make her glorious icons.

Louise lives on bravely in her distressed home which used to be the hotel at Cannich, solitary but still exuding universal goodwill. She has a part-time job at a new equestrian centre which has been established south of Cannich where it's a joy to see her skill with and affection for horses, including her own Fritz. She's the nearest to a horse whisperer I know.

Among other changes, the Forestry Commission has called time on the wild boar experiment and the piggies have gone. Deanie, the last Lovat outpost in Glen Strathfarrar, has been sold to the neighbouring Braulen Estate and Scott, who lived there, has moved on, leaving his grove of alphabetical Celtic trees to flourish for others. I hope he took his compost.

As required by protocol, the coat of arms ‘by royal appointment’ at Campbell's tweed shop in Beauly has been taken down after serving its time – a small loss to the High Street. And Tim's daffodil-coloured vintage Porsche is for sale – ‘Time to put away the toys,’ as he says.

On the larger scale, a public enquiry ruled that the Beauly–Stirling power line should go ahead as planned and now mammoth pylons stalk across the countryside, even in some places thrusting above the skyline. Some former opponents now admit that you get used to them, to the extent of not even realising their existence, others damn them for their intrusion – a sentiment I share.

But the hills and the skies are changeless and the magic remains.