The Den of Fowlis

 The Den o' Fowlis, also termed Spinkie Den or Balruddery Den, lies several miles north-west of Dundee. Its common name spinkie comes from the profusion of primroses which flourish there. The small, enclosed ravine (covering a site of 20.4 acres) was made a Site of Special Scientific Interest in 1984, due to the botanical interest. The trees here include oak, wych elm and ash, and there is a profusion of flowers, wild garlic, plus mosses and ferns.Some time in the late 1980s, when I visited it, the mini glen was looking particularly forlorn, with evidence of widespread tree felling. To me, it looked like an example of rural vandalism, but it may very well have been evidence only of a carefully managed and necessary act of conservation.

   Long established as a special hideaway, there is a tradition of revelers from the Dundee suburb of Lochee alighting here in the late 19th century, being led to the den by a fiddler. Beyond this bare, recorded fact, these long ago gatherings are lost in the mists of time.

Poems On The Den

   The two following poetic effusions from Victorian times hardly do the Den justice, but are included here for the hell of it. One is by the redoubtable McGonagall, though the other poem is hardly better.

The Den o’ Fowlis, William McGonagall (1882)

Beautiful Den o’ Fowlis, most charming to be seen
In the summer season, when your trees are green;
Especially in the bright and clear month of June,
When your flowers and shrubberies are in full bloom.
There visitors can enjoy themselves during the holidays,
And be shaded by the trees from the sun’s rays,
And admire the beautiful primroses that grow there;
And inhale their sweet perfume that fills the air.
There the little children sport and play,
Blythe and gay during the live-long summer day,
In its beautiful green and cool shady bowers,
Chasing the bee and butterfly, and pulling the flowers.
There the Minnows loup and play;
In the little rivulet all the day;
Right in the hollow of that fairy-like Den,
Together in little shoals of nine or ten
And the Mavis and Blackbird merrily sing,
Making the Den with their notes to ring;
From high noon till sunset at night,
Filling the visitor’s heart with delight.
Tis most lovely to see the trees arched overhead,
And the little rivulet rolling o’er its pebbly bed,
Ane near by is an old Meal Mill;
Likewise an old Church and Churchyard where the dead lie still.
The Den is always cool in the summer time,
Because it is so closely shaded from the sunshine,
By the spreading branches of the trees,
While the murmuring of the rivulet is heard on the night breeze.
It is a very magnificent spot the Den o’ Fowlis,
And where oft the wintry wind it howls,
Among its bare and leafless withered trees,
And with fear would almost make one’s heart to freeze.
To be walking through it on a dark wintry night,
Because the bare trees seem like spectres to your sight,
And everything around seems dark and drear,
And fills the timid mind with an undefinable fear.
But in the summer season it is most lovely to see;
With its fair flowers and romantic scenery,
Where the people can enjoy themselves all the day,
In the months of July, June, or May.
There the people can drink pure water when they are dry;
From the wells of spring water in the Den near by,
Which God has provided for his creatures in that lonely spot,
And such a blessing to the people shouldn’t be forgot.

Den of Fowlis, Patrick Cargill Guthrie from My Lost Love (London, 1865) 

Ah! Bonnie den, my weary heart
Oft wanders fond to thee;
The memory of thy sylvan groves,
How very dear to me.

Remembrance of thy beauty brings
No mixture sad of pain,
For then to me had Eden come
In pristine bliss again.
No clouds my pathway then had cross'd,
I walk'd in angel-joy,
My lusty pulses beating high -
The happy poet-boy!
The winding walks o'ershadow'd cool
By boughs of lovely green,
With footsteps firm I proudly trod,
Of fame assured, I ween.
The glad larks sang 'mong golden clouds,
The finch 'mong blushing bloom,
The mavis piped upon the thorn,
The linnet 'mong the broom.
The wild flowers flung their fragrance rich
To every passing breeze;
Upon the senses stealing came
The drowsy hum of bees.
Earth, sea, and air rejoicing free,
Glad anthems rolling high;
Within my soul a deep, deep joy -
Divinest melody!
What grand thoughts stirred my youthful soul,
What aspirations high;
What longing - wistful - tearful looks
Into futurity!
Ah! then throughout my silver veins, 
Flow'd swift in golden streams,
My warm, rich blood, imparting form,

And substance to my dreams.