Say it out loud: Tantallon. Does it not sound like an invocation? Do the T’s and L's not scramble around the mouth like fingers over rocks, calling to life the formidable giant perched atop a ragged cliff, in defiance of any who would challenge it?
I don’t know about you, but whenever someone speaks of a place with deep reverence or awe, my mind’s perceptions encourage a growing sense of mystery about it, which stays with me until I can see it all for myself.
The day my beloved and I visited Tantallon, it was a Tuesday. A damp cold drove in from the Firth of Forth and what clouds there were hung like a haze on the horizon. With its cliffs devoid of the massive colony of North Atlantic Gannets that clamour about from late winter through to the autumn, Bass Rock looked lonely, forgotten.