Royal Scottish Lavender Creed 1856

Panting and whistling, the old steam locomotive chugs up the hills.
Down below, far beneath us, lies Loch Lomond.
What vastness … what tranquility …

It is a leisurely journey, unhurried and restorative.
The sun reflects on the water, and the lake throws back myriads of dazzling sparks.
This light … you can almost taste it.
A Scottish summer lies within, a bit cool and not as bright as the summers of Provence, but it carries the same hopeful essence.
Green are the hills, sunlit and still.

Down there he may have once ridden ...
Bonnie Prince Charlie.
Past that old castle, over the stone bridge ...

We cross a small river, and now a strong, warm, blue note gradually blends into all that fresh green.
That is … yes, that is lavender!
Not the soft lavender of France, sun-kissed and cuddly.
It is a different, harder lavender, stricter, more intense, clearer.

It weaves through our journey with the bright sparkle of the lake and the lush green of the hills into a symphony, a harmony that carries us away into this vastness, this silence …

The sun has chased away the last clouds and warms the old, polished wood of our compartment.
We have opened the window, pulled down the leather strap worn by countless hands, enjoying the breeze that wafts over from the lavender fields.
Secretly we wish that this journey may never end …