Hill of Garvock
The journey to Barad-dûr
In the land of Aberdeenshire, in the rolling hills and verdant fields, there lies a summit of ancient repute: the Hill of Garvock. High above the plains it stands, crowned with a tower of stone that pierces the sky like the dark spire of Barad-dûr itself. And though it is not the Eye of Sauron that watches from its heights, it is nonetheless guarded—by a herd of formidable beasts, more docile in appearance but no less territorial than the fell orcs of Mordor. These were not the servants of some dark lord, but of a farmer, who tended his cows with the same care one might afford to a legion of fearsome trolls.
Yet, it was to this very summit that our company was bound, for in the air lay a quest most urgent: the activation of the Hill of Garvock, a task that would call forth the wizard’s skill in communicating across the very ether, from the highest point in the land.
I, the wizard of our company, bore the mantle of Gandalf, though my power lay not in staff nor sword but in the ancient art of invisible communication. Deep within my pack lay a Kenwood D72, my 6m staff of carbon fiber, and the slim G that would beacon out into the surrounds. The winds would carry my signals to those far off in Aberdeen, and to those kindred spirits who also sought the heights to send their voices across the void. At my side marched four brave souls, each chosen for this journey by the fates, and not being legally allowed to be left at home alone.
There was Legolas, my eldest daughter, whose eyes were sharp and whose feet were swift. She would scout ahead, her keen senses attuned to the slightest disturbance in the fields. Princess Galadriel, my youngest daughter, whose beauty was only matched by her inability to carry anything, walked beside me, her grace a light in the darkening day. And then there were the two hobbits twins, whose hearts were as large as their stature was small, and whose constant complaining, kept the chill of the sea wind at bay.
We set forth from the edge of the Laurencekirk Viewpoint, the last outpost of civilisation before the untamed fields. The sky was overcast, and the air held the promise of rain, yet we were undeterred. Alas, we were also ill-prepared, with only half party bringing their cloaks. The path ahead led us across open land, where no tree or boulder might shield us from the vigilant eyes of the bovine sentinels.
The cows, vast in number and broad of horn, gazed upon us with suspicion as we approached their domain. Legolas, ever watchful, whispered of their movements. “They are gathering, Father,” she said, “forming a line as if to bar our passage.” I nodded, drawing my cloak about me as though it might ward off the cows’ ponderous gaze.
“Fear not, my children,” I said, raising my carbon-6 mast. “We have journeyed through lands more perilous than these (Edinburgh Airport customs border). Though the path is fraught with unseen dangers, we must press on.”
And so we did, our footsteps light but purposefully avoiding cow pats, as we crossed the meadow. The hobbits skipped merrily, laughing as they narrowly avoided an enormous pat, recently produced. Princess Galadriel’s voice, soft as a whispering brook, soothed the beasts as we passed, her words lost to the wind but not to the cows, who turned away as though under some enchantment.
At last, we reached the final field before the tower, the summit of Garvock now within our grasp. The stone structure loomed above us, a sentinel of old, marking the land for miles around. As we stepped into the activation zone, the winds howled, and the clouds parted, allowing the briefest shaft of sunlight to illuminate our path.
I raised my staff and sent out the call. The air shimmered with VHF magic, and our presence was made known across the land. The summit was activated, our voices carried far and wide, across hill and valley, to others who awaited our signal.
We awoke a wizard of exceptional experience, housed in our home town of Aberdeen, who’s voice had not been heard on 2m FM for over 20 years, but whose relentless questioning and detailed itemisation of his wizarding horde kept us within the range of the cows for longer than anyone was content with.
The quest was complete, and though the way back was still guarded by those bovine watchers, we knew the day was ours. With spirits high and laughter on our lips, we descended from the Hill of Garvock, in search of a cafe in Johnshaven and with the memory of our adventure etched forever in our hearts.