Hiraeth

It starts with silence, not real silence, but country silence; the kind that's loud. Sparrows and pigeons and the distant cry of seagulls chased inland by the Scottish weather. Stirling is small, and I can promise you most of the good stuff isn't in the city centre.

So, start in St Ninians... I know, I know, it looks like Raccoon City, its dishevelled and a little gritty but its honest and its important we start here because in summer the sun is already up but the roads are quiet so you can follow me, rucksack on your shoulder, towards the park, up through Cultenhove, and then out on the back roads. The town, city, for what it is, drops away quickly and its green fields and trees ahead. Its a single track road, no more streetlights out here, just cows and sheep in the fields and an hour of walking up steep pathways ahead. So quiet you can hear the leaves rustle. Pass the the army plot used for driver training and keep going up until you see a low, dry stone wall and a layby, then follow the river. When we hit another slope you'll want to go home, but trust me. Stay with me.

You can see a whole lot of nothing from here and its perfect.

I know you're tired, but there's sandwiches and a thermos of tea in the bag and this... this is worth it.

Do you see it?

This is what it was for; the early start, the long walk. Just sit and breath with me, eat slowly, sip your tea, feel that breeze. Its fresh and sharp enough to cut, and the sun is pretty much up now. The sheep are just dots on the field and car windows wink in the distance because the rest of the town is waking up. But none of it comes up here.

Take your time; perfection shouldn't be rushed. In fact, I'd argue it can't be and when you're ready we'll finish the loop, all the way down (yes its downhill this time, hallelujah and bring your rubbish with you - I like this spot as it is) past the 1314 Inn, a place we could have stopped at for a beer and a truly excellent steak pie if it were later in the day, into Whins of Milton.

By the time circuit is complete you'll recognize where we started just in time to hop on the 38 bus into town. Don't worry, though, there's another walk ahead, turn away from the castle and come with me to the Smith Art Gallery and Museum. It's old, its tiny, and its free to enter... and it smells like an old library. Follow the marked path around and you'll see the traces of how it used to be.

Iron horseshoes and a plough handle, pictures of people who walked across the same paving stones and floorboards as we are now.

I know, its not the excitement of adventure or the lights of a big city. It's quiet. It's slow... its peaceful. The silence feels holy and the smell of fresh coffee whispers in from the café. We could go there for something; its been hours since the sandwich this morning, but we're not done, so we make our way to Baker Street (on Fridays and Saturdays the pub on the corner does live music) and keep climbing up.

Its a city of hills. In the medieval period the castle here was a stronghold, guarding the fording point of the Forth river. Holding the country together and from Gowan Hill you can see it all. The farmlands held in the bowl of a natural valley, held by the Ochil Hills, slowly being eaten by the march of human expansion, the old canons watching as the world they recognized fades and the castle above them peacocks for ornamentation rather than the function of the past.

After we've circled the beheading stone and pondered the meaning of life (and the lack of it in this case) the question becomes simpler; do you want elegance or fun?

Trick question; we're going back down and across the river to a bowling alley that hasn't changed in thirty years. That grungy, neon eighties carpet has seen better days, the panelling on the ceiling is dingy, and it smells like mustiness. I know, I know I'm really selling it here, but hear me out; real memories are made in the places that aren't Instagramable. The Bellagio may be gorgeous, but it doesn't look like a Stranger Things reject set, have a life sized Hungry, Hungry Hippos game, styrofoam-esque bowling alley pizza and cheap pinot grigio on tap.

This is the dive bar of bowling alleys, and you can't convince me its not perfection. That giant Space Invaders game? My friend and I wont 1,000 tickets on it four years ago and traded them for a magic 8 ball that I still have. Load up on cheap food and warm booze and throw some balls with me, hit Dance Dance Revolution and when the sun starts to dip we can leave.

Because its not a perfect day yet... and it never will be. Not really; for this part we need to slide sideways, slip through the gaps of time. The path is the same as it always was; walk past Viewforth with me and imagine its still there, watching with a hundred glassy eyes. Walk past what used to be Somerfield but is now Lidl. Pass the park we started at this morning and keep going. Its a long walk this one, longer than you can measure in miles. The sun stays behind the whole way.

Follow the Bannockburn road until you see the highschool and then we turn at the mini roundabout. We skip the first left, take the second and walk past three doors on our right before the journey comes to an end.

In another time we'd walk down that path, knock the door, and step into a house bursting with colour. You'd see the plush carpet and take your shoes off, you'd smile at the cat ornaments and the church materials floating around, and at some point she'd wander through from the tiny kitchen in billowing materials and bright colours and put Rosemary Clooney on the CD player for a dance while the kettle boils.

Instead we're on the outside. But thats ok... it was an almost perfect day.