“Have you seen anything?” The seemingly innocuous question comes from a prim lady in a bright mac and matching lipstick, who I will now spend the next fortnight thinking about. Because though she’s asked a simple question, I’m at an absolute loss to answer it without sounding cheeky, sarcastic or stupid. Let me explain: we’re standing at the top of on an overcast summer Sunday.
Behind and below us is the dam itself, a 73-year-old feat of engineering and formidable structure to behold. Water rushes on the steps of the famous fish ladder, built to help salmon traverse the dam and get to their spawning area each year. Underfoot at the top of the 54ft tall concrete behemoth, the drum gate mechanisms creak and shudder, betraying the sheer volume and force of the water it holds, and which still powers thousands of homes in the area.
I spy birds perched on the structure’s front face, which I think are some sort of finch but I’m no ornithologist so I can’t be sure. They are happily birding about, unaware and unfazed by the man-made might which stands between them and the gallons of water above. Then there’s the view in front of me – the Tummel reservoir, still and tranquil and enclosed in a glade of towering, emerald firs.
The sky is steely and full of drama. The stillness is breath-taking, and I stand mesmerised as I watch light rain droplets prick the glassy surface for a good ten minutes before the tourist’s voice breaks through, braying: “Have you seen any.