Puck's Glen

Water is everywhere. It slips and tumbles beside the path, sometimes hidden, sometimes bursting into view as a small waterfall or a sudden rush of white over dark stone. The burn seems to lead the way, pulling you deeper into the gorge. Wooden bridges creak softly underfoot, and stone steps—darkened with age and moss—rise and fall with the shape of the land.

The forest feels old here. Ferns brush against your legs, roots twist across the path, and the rock walls glisten as if they’re breathing. Sunlight filters down in fragments, catching on wet leaves and turning the spray into something briefly luminous. It’s easy to imagine why this place carries a name like Puck’s Glen; the atmosphere is playful but watchful, beautiful yet slightly unsettling.

I find myself walking more slowly than usual, not because the path demands it, but because the glen does. Every turn offers another small revelation: a pool swirling below a cascade, a sudden view upward to towering trees, the constant murmur of water echoing through the ravine. The outside world feels very far away.

By the time the path begins to open out again, I’m reluctant to leave. Puck’s Glen doesn’t feel like a walk you complete; it feels like a place you pass through briefly, aware that it will continue on exactly as it is once you’re gone—water flowing, moss growing, light flickering patiently through the trees.