To relish a rare balmy day in October, as well as to fulfil Dian’s yearly desire of soaking up the autumnal splendour, we repaired to Glen Tilt, a secluded valley in the north of Perthshire, where we were to set off on a day-long excursion.

One might find trails dedicated to spotting the nearly threatened red squirrels (Scotland’s only native squirrel species), such as the Red Squirrel Walk. Following such a trail, however, was deemed unnecessary by the two red squirrels who greeted us near the entrance before gamboling back in the woods. All around was a profusion of amber foliage of the maple trees, their sunlit star-shaped leaves forming a caressing canopy of canary against the balmy blue. Every now and then, a leaf left its home whispering, to submit to the rustling earth underneath.

Further ahead, as the reverberating sounds of the ongoing recreational shooting in the vicinity became amplified, we paused and wondered, in our naivety, if our track lay within the firing range, until our uncertainty was dispelled by a fellow couple, whom we had previously encountered. The couple were very familiar with the whereabouts of the place, for they had been visiting it for years. Their pooch, Kai, who was initially wary of nosey Clancy—even warding him off as, most small dogs do—merrily trotted alongside him once she witnessed her human companions walking and conversing with us, then intermittently returning to each of them to endearingly evince her loyalty. Before branching off, the widely travelled and long-married couple, describing what lay ahead, hoped that we relished the place, of which they had fond memories, as much as they did all these years.

A pack of kennelled dogs began barking incessantly as we walked past, while Clancy, who often pretends to be aggressive, reciprocated by simply marching ahead with his head down, in contrived silence—as if he never noticed the kennel or its occupants. Elsewhere, grazing sheep, pretending to fear Clancy, stayed stationary, each watching him with a mix of caution and curiosity, while the object of their preoccupation, in turn, sheepishly averted his gaze with mild apprehension.

It was beyond midday when we passed a convex stone-arch bridge from the 18th century, named the Gilbert’s Bridge. Adjoining the foot of the hills, the path ahead seemed inviting and the landscape bewitching, but, unprepared for the dusk, we chose to conclude the excursion, promising to return for an extended hike on another day.

If one wished to simply be swathed in the serenity of Scotland for a day without roving, then to Glen Tilt they ought to be going, for the walk affords vistas of a forest, a gorge, the moorland, the hills, a river, the waterfalls, and the bucolic. There was so much beauty to imbibe: from the silvery rocks with waves engraved on their burnished facets to the honeycombed patterns of chatoyant light dancing in the brooks (rippling caustics); from the warm hues of the tilted trees to the ever-shifting dapples of light and shade over the undulating hills near and afar. Autumn was indeed in its full glory in this microcosm of Scotland that Dian found through his peculiar ways of traversing satellite imagery.

P.S. During the onward drive, I was reminded of the plight of pheasants when we alarmingly came close to one on the motorway. To my great relief, the unspeakable was averted. On the A9 road in Perth, more than 32 pheasants had lost their lives. Why do these pitiful creatures approach busy thoroughfares, and why, when faced with oncoming traffic, do they exhibit poor reflexes? In writing this, I have learnt the sad truth: pheasants are considered game birds; raised in captivity without parents and released for the thrill of shooting, they lack the ability to take timely flight from danger. A gossamery existence is theirs, for they roam unprepared to escape the wheels that spell their doom.