Trossachs

This recording is in the public domain.

adieu redalian laurels that have grown and spread as if ye knew that days might come when ye would shelter in a happy home on this fair mount a poet of your own one who ne'er ventured for a delphic crown to sue the god but haunting your green shade all seasons through is humbly pleased to braid ground flowers beneath your guardianship self-sown farewell no minstrels now with harp new strung for summer wandering quit their household bowers yet not for this one's poesy a tongue to cheer the itinerant on whom she pours her spirit while he crosses lonely moors or musing sits forsaken halls among The Trossachs by William Wordsworth there's not a nook within this solemn pass but where an apt confessional for one taught by his summer spent his autumn gone that life is but a tale of morning grass withered at eve from scenes of art which chase that thought away turn and with watchful eyes feed it mid nature's old felicities rocks rivers and smooth lakes more clear than glass untouched unbreathed upon thrice happy quest if from a golden perch of aspen spray october's workmanship to rival may the pensive warbler of the ruddy breast that moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay Lulling the year with all its cares to rest.

well mayst thou halt and gaze with brightening eye the lovely cottage in the guardian nook hath stirred thee deeply with its own dear brook its own small pasture almost its own sky But covet not the abode, forbear to sigh, as many do, repining while they look.

Tyler Reddick here from 2311 Racing.

This recording is in the public domain.

adieu redalian laurels that have grown and spread as if ye knew that days might come when ye would shelter in a happy home on this fair mount a poet of your own one who ne'er ventured for a delphic crown to sue the god but haunting your green shade all seasons through is humbly pleased to braid ground flowers beneath your guardianship self-sown farewell no minstrels now with harp new strung for summer wandering quit their household bowers yet not for this one's poesy a tongue to cheer the itinerant on whom she pours her spirit while he crosses lonely moors or musing sits forsaken halls among The Trossachs by William Wordsworth.

Read for LibriVox.org. there's not a nook within this solemn pass but where an apt confessional for one taught by his summer spent his autumn gone that life is but a tale of morning grass withered at eve from scenes of art which chase that thought away turn and with watchful eyes feed it mid nature's old felicities rocks rivers and smooth lakes more clear than glass untouched unbreathed upon thrice happy quest if from a golden perch of aspen spray october's workmanship to rival may the pensive warbler of the ruddy breast that moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay Lulling the year with all its cares to rest.

well mayst thou halt and gaze with brightening eye the lovely cottage in the guardian nook hath stirred thee deeply with its own dear brook its own small pasture almost its own sky but covet not the abode forbear to sigh as many do repining while they look intruders who would tear from nature's book this precious leaf with harsh impiety think what the home must be if it were thine even thine though few thy wants roof window door the very flowers are sacred to the poor the roses to the porch which they entwine yea all that now enchants thee from the day on which it should be touched would melt away the forest huge of ancient carradin the forest huge of ancient carradin is but a name no more is inglewood that swept from hill to hill from flood to flood on her last thorn the nightly moon has shone yet still though an appropriate wild be none fair park spread wide where adam bell might deign with clem o the clough were they alive again to kill for merry feast their venison nor once the holy abbot's gliding shade his church with monumental wreck bestrone the feudal warrior chief a ghost unlaid hath still his castle though a skeleton that he may watch by night and lessons con of power that perishes and rites that fade Ex La Chapelle by William Wordsworth was it to disenchant and to undo that we approach the seat of charlemagne to sweep from many an old romantic strain that faith which no devotion may renew why does this puny church present to view her feeble columns and that scanty chair the sword that one of our weak times might wear objects of false pretence or meanly true if from a traveller's fortune i might claim a palpable memorial of that day then would i seek the pyrenean breach that roland clove with huge two-handed sway and to the enormous labour left his name where on remitting frosts the rocky crescent bleach between namur and liege what lovelier home could gentle fancy choose is this the stream whose city's heights and plains war's favorite playground are with crimson stains familiar as the morn with pearly dews the morn that now along the silver mews spreading her peaceful ensigns calls the swains to tend their silent boats and ringing wains or strip the bough whose mellow fruit bestrews the ripening corn beneath it as mine eyes turn from the fortified and threatening hill how sweet the prospect of yon watery glade with its gray rocks clustering in pensive shade that shaped like old monastic turrets rise from the smooth meadow-ground serene and still composed on westminster bridge september third eighteen o two earth has not anything to show more fair dull would he be of soul who could pass by a sight so touching in its majesty this city now doth like a garment wear the beauty of the morning silent bare ships towers domes theatres and temples lie open unto the fields and to the sky all bright and glittering in the smokeless air never did sun more beautifully steep in his first splendour valley rock or hill ne'er saw i never felt a calm so deep the river glideth at his own sweet will dear god the very houses seem asleep and all that mighty heart is lying still end of poem this recording is in the public domain roman antiquities by william wordsworth read for how profitless the relics that we cull troubling the last holds of ambitious rome unless they chasten fancies that presume too high or idle agitations of the world's flatteries if the brain be full to have no seat for thought were better doom like this old helmet or the eyeless skull of him who gloried in its nodding plume heaven out of view our wishes what are they our fond regrets tenacious in their grasp the sage's theory the poet's lay mere fibuli without a robe to clasp obsolete lamps whose light no time recalls urns without ashes tearless lachrymals End of poem.

help you set it up you would know a place like name a place we could do the swim in loch lomond what about loch ness

nah Nessie's in there you can't you can't disturb Nessie and yeah Loch Lomond then you'd be in the Trossachs you could go for a big cycle up and round there oh yeah I wonder why they haven't done Scotland it's maybe just yeah you know logistics or something

Okay, so one thing we want to do on the start line, in the on the start line episode, is hear from you guys.

So I went out and found another report.

She is of the company of Laura and Beatrice and Stella, of Lucasta and Julia, and of the unknown lady of Arver's sonnet.

Wednesday we went to the Trossachs.

This is one of the expeditions I have looked forward to all my life ever since I read The Lady of the Lake in school days.

Sitting behind my old desk at school, I dreamed out the panorama of hill and lake and pass, where Ellen lived and Fitzjames wandered and Roderick Dew brooded like a storm cloud over a highland hill, and I made a covenant with myself that when my ship came in, I should go and see it.

Of all the ways of locomotion I have ever tried, I like coaching best.

It beats motoring hollow.

We soon reached Stronachlacar, which in spite of its dreadful name is an exquisite spot, and took the boat down to Loch Katrine, to the Trossachs pier.

I cannot decide whether Loch Katrine disappointed me or not.

But there did live in Tite Street a young couple with whom the Minchins had at one time been on friendly terms.

That was in the day of plenty and extravagance, and the acquaintance, formed at an hotel in the Trossachs, had not ripened in town as the two wives could have wished.

It was Mrs. Carrington, however, who had found the Minchins their furnished house, while her husband certainly interested himself in Rachel's defense.

Carrington was a barrister who never himself touched criminal work, but he had spoken to a friend who did, to wit the brilliant terror of female witnesses and caustic critic of the police, to whom Rachel owed so little.

Reactions to previous episodes of Pain, Stains and Automobiles continue.

And in particular, William of the Trossachs, very appreciative of the episode with the writer Colin Edmonds, a true unsung hero, you say.

And he and you and Lady Penelope were talking of pates.

Oh, yes, bald pates.

They packed their bikes and a tent and went camping around Scotland instead.

St Andrews, Dumfries and Galloway, the Trossachs, with Kim squeezed in the back seat between her brother Ewan and sister Judith.

They walked, cycled and kayaked all day, then cooked together on a camping stove.

It was a childhood built around movement, not organised training.

Don't, don't hold me to that, but that's more or less the commuter belt into Glasgow or even a further field up to towards Edinburgh.

So yeah, you've got your sort of, uh, residential areas and, you know, it's still, it's still nice, but then you start opening up as you head towards the Loch Lomond and the Trossachs national parks.

So really you get towards, uh, uh, outboat and Tarbots station and, uh, Yeah, you start getting some nice scenery and you start opening up onto the loch and, yeah, it's gorgeous.

So is that Loch Lomond that you see there? That's Loch Lomond.

Yes.

Doug, where? Harking back to matters of previous episodes, William of the Trossachs emails, psa at voxbroadcast.uk, on the matter of school dinners.

Oh, I love a school dinner.

Yeah, well, we established, didn't we, that you were the sort of human dustbin of the dining table at school.

And I'm not sweating, copyright Penny Smith, on the tube, on the street or on the road.

I promise.

And that's William of the Trossachs covering all bases, really.

Except, can I just point out, listening to that, my mouth went wide open.

Dick Turpin has been my lay figure for many an English lane.

And I suppose the Trossachs would hardly be the Trossachs for most tourists if a man of admirable romantic instinct had not peopled it for them with harmonious figures and brought them thither their minds rightly prepared for the impression.

There is half the battle in this preparation.

For instance, I have rarely been able to visit in the proper spirit the wild and inhospitable places of our own highlands.