Every year my father would take us to Glen Lyon. This is where he spent the happiest time of his life, living with his grandmother in a small whitewashed cottage with green wooden shutters that had heart shaped holes cut out in them.
Before travelling into the glen, we stopped at Aberfeldy, a picturesque town where the poet Robert Burns wrote his song “The Birks Of Aberfeldy” and where Dewar’s whiskey is distilled.
On the edge of town, next to the river, is the putting green where we would always stop for a wee game. If I managed to get a hole in one, I would get an extra scoop of ice cream on my cone.
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