Haste Ye Back to Newburgh
As the tiny Loganair plane traced the Tay on its way to Dundee airport I smiled as Newburgh came into view. Back once more to recharge my batteries and blow six months’ worth of cobwebs away. Back to the royal burgh hugging the banks of the Tay, the woods smothering the Mugdrum estate, the faded image of the bear tracked out on the hill.
Back to the ancestral home where for centuries my forebears have tilled the land, fished the river, forged horseshoes, baked loaves, passed on their learning and set off on journeys to all parts of the globe – almost always to return to Newburgh at some stage. I like to believe it may have been a favourite place for many of them too.
That’s because there’s something about Newburgh which draws you back again. You could throw three coins in the Victory fountain – for luck and pretend its the Trevi – if you think you need luck to bring you back to Newburgh – but you won’t need to. There’s something about the place that gets a grip on you and draws you back voluntarily to explore the riverbank, the surrounding hills and the spectacular views.
Those breathtaking views over the Tay down at the waterfront become even more vivid when the wind is blowing through your hair and causing your eyes to water and blowing those cobwebs far, far away. You could explore the quaint shops on the High Street, the Laing museum or the ancient Abbey ruins. You might visit during the plum fair, scarecrow festival or craft week. On any day meander down through the park instead. At each turn in the path you can’t help but stop. And gasp. And stare.
Whether it’s at sunset, midday or early in the morning, watch, look and listen as the tide ebbs and flows, ebbs and flows, changing the course of the mighty river over time. Swifts and swallows dart and dive, skimming over the river’s surface, then buoyed up and down by the wind as if bouncing on a trampoline. Aside from the cheeping and calling of the birds, the lapping of the tide on the pier, the clang, clang of the rigging on the boat masts and the rush of the wind through the reeds, there is silence.
The town draws you back – not like a hook – rather it envelopes you like a cosy, soft, handcrafted wrap. Even on the coldest of days there’s a glow about the place, the luminous glow of a magical sweet pea sky as the light fades, the soft rose, violet , lilac and lavender hues reflected in the river and reflecting the bountiful, fragrant gardens.
A few deep breaths of that fresh air remind you of the cleanest spring clean ever. One or two friendly dog walkers pass by, one or two boats sail down the river, a flock of geese fly overhead in formation and a family of ducks bob up and down looking for their dinner. I could stay here forever, feeling the warm sunshine through my coat, basking in the peace and contentment only found in my favourite place.
