Sometime a journey becomes more than you ever would have expected of it. This is what happened last Monday.

Maybe you remember the weather. East Lothian was drenched with thick mist all day.There were a few moments when the sun glinted faintly in the grey sky, reminding us that beyond the curtain of mist the heavens were blue, but the curtain didn’t open that day at all.

We had an errand and, as is my habit, on our return I took to the back roads in search of adventure with my partner and two youngest. Admittedly my six-month-old didn’t really care, but my nearly five-year-old is at that age where constant entertainment is required and what better place to provide it than the wonderful varied landscape of our county?

After a tour of swing parks with picnics, we found ourselves rising into the mist of the Lammermuir hills, just south of the wonderful village of Garvald. Soon we were climbing steeply into a different world.

Green fields gave way to open moorland, sheep grazed by the road, which became narrower and narrower until we reached a point where passing places were needed. We were now in the mist, and the moment we got out of the car our clothes glistened as tiny droplets of Scottish atmosphere clung to us.

We stopped first at White Castle Fort, a prehistoric fortress right on the edge of the hills, normally with a commanding view over East Lothian and to the north beyond. On this day, however, we walked in eerie silence over the ancient ramparts surrounded by thick enveloping mist.

We all stood (except the one sleeping while being carried) and marvelled at the atmosphere. The mist created mystery for sure, but there was something else. There was absolutely no wind and there were no modern sounds. No traffic, no human noise at all. But it was not quiet. The sound of birds was everywhere, as well as sheep bleating, and unseen bees. We could even hear the burn far below us.

The sound of nature It was the sound of nature inter-mixed with total silence, intensified by the lack of visibility. I soaked in the magic of that moment, and I think my daughter did too, as she had never experienced a place of such solitude before.

And so we continued deeper into the Lammermuirs, but it was only when we reached Johnscleuch that I suddenly realised we were following in the footsteps of the ill-fated Scottish army of James IV as he headed for Flodden. We followed the Whiteadder River and crossed the herring road from Dunbar.

“It’s so remote up here, are we still in East Lothian?” asked my partner Kate.

We most certainly were, but the steep sides of Spartleton Hill loomed into the mist, making it feel more like the Highlands. In this weather it felt incredibly remote, and Kate observed that “in winter this road must be quite dangerous”.

The moment she said this I knew what tale I would tell this week: the story of a remarkable young man called Donald Johnstone, a shepherd and herdsman of the Lammermuirs.

The tale was originally told to a 19th-century traveller and writer named W H Maxwell, who sat in these hills with a shepherd who recounted the events of the tale as only someone with first-hand knowledge could. Maxwell sat transfixed as the shepherd pointed to the ruins of a herdsman’s house close to the Whiteadder River.

“Look closely,” he said “and you will see that the groound tells ye that naw sae lang ago it wis worked, and that it wis hame tae a family by the name o’ Johnstone.” There were two sons, Reuben and his younger brother Donald. There were three years between them and, although they had fought like all brothers do, there was a powerful bond between them.

One day, Donald returned from a day on the hills to find a gloomy atmosphere in the house. He was bewildered as to why the cheerful conversations of the morning had given way to what seemed almost like grief.

“Whit’s the matter, why this grief in the hoose?” asked Donald, anxiously.

His mother looked at him. She looked terribly sad, and she explained: “Och Donald, puir Reuben’s bin drawn fir a sodger, and he maun gang across the seas, an leave his bonny bride.” The Peninsular War was waging, and young men were being called up by ballot. It was a kind of lottery in reverse. Life had just been going so well for Donald’s brother. He was just recently married to his sweetheart Alice, who had brought with her 50 sheep and nice bed linen!

But now he must go to war, and perhaps not return. Alice’s face was hidden in her apron as she sobbed uncontrollably.

Donald thought for only a fleeting moment before he made his decision.

“Naw!” he said, hitting the table with his clenched fist.” Reuben shall bide at hame, gin they will tak me in his stead!” “Ye cannae dae that brother, it is tae much tae ask,” replied Reuben. But Donald’s mind was made up. His family could not dissuade him. He would enlist in the place of his brother.

Little imagination is needed to picture the scene as he left home in his brother’s place to join the army. His mother wept, his brother felt guilt but all knew that Donald’s mind was set. He vanished below the moor as he headed off towards his chosen destiny.

Needless to say, the authorities cared not which son was offered up for sacrifice.

A year after enlisting, on May 16, 1811, Donald found himself in the midst of the bloodbath of the Battle of Albuera. His bravery earned him two stripes, and who can say what horrors he must have witnessed. He was a world away from his life in the Lammermuir hills, where his family still tended the sheep and cattle, and listened to the birdsong on the remote moor.

They knew nothing of his bravery or even if he was still alive. His parents and brother and his wife prayed every day for his safe return. Another two years went by and Reuben and Alice now had two children. Yet their uncle was still unknown to them.

Then one Sabbath morning, when the family were in the kirk, the door opened in the middle of the minister’s sermon. All heads turned to see a young man standing in military uniform. It was Donald.

When his mother saw him her legs gave way and she fell to her knees, her arms outstretched as she let out a scream of joy. The service was completely interrupted as the congregation milled round Donald.

Three years had passed, yet he seemed to have aged 10, but not in a bad way. Donald now had a stature of a hero. Three stripes decorated his arm and the joy of his family was almost outmatched by the attention of the young women of the congregation, who swooned around this handsome, brave and gallant soldier.

Donald was now a man of the world, with tales of horror, bravery and adventure. He had been to places and seen things he could never have imagined. Yet he was still Donald of the Lammermuirs. Hardly a day had gone by when he didn’t think of his home, or the hills and their sounds and smells.

Secret he kept But there had been a secret he had kept. He had loved as well. But unlike his older brother, this love had been a distant infatuation. Her name was Mary Hay, and she was the daughter of the minister. No way would the minister have agreed marriage with him, a second son of a herdsman.

But he had left flowers by her window almost every week. Mary had no idea who her secret suitor had been. But the moment Donald left for the army the gifts ceased and Mary realised too late that it had been Donald who had held a secret passion for her.

And so on that day of his return, as the minister regained control of the service, Donald sat with his joyful family the subject of many flattering female glances, but he had eyes for only one: Mary Hay.

And as he scanned the kirk for her, their eyes met. And Mary communicated to him without words that his feelings were not in vain!

And so that week Donald called on the Manse. His leave was soon to end and he would return to war. Was it luck or was it planned that Mary’s father was absent? She threw away all thoughts of her reputation and the two lovers vanished into the misty hills.

It was a painfully short affair, but all the more intense. But in the seclusion of the Lammermuirs, by the remote ancient ruins of Gamelsheil Castle, they promised themselves to each other just before he left.

Mary kept her promise. Many young men tried to woo her, and her father put pressure on her to take these men of property as a husband. But she refused, until finally her father, understanding the strength of her desire and love for Donald, agreed. He was now, after all, a war hero and man of immense reputation.

Far away, Donald got word that he had the blessing of Mary’s father. All he had to do now was stay alive! And as war raged this was no easy feat. His bravery was undiminished, and by the war’s end he was a sergeant major, the highest rank a man of his lowly social status could achieve in the class-ridden British Army.

The abdication of Napoleon and the end of the war meant demobilisation for many, including Donald. He had survived, but was not uninjured. As he crossed the Channel he allowed himself to finally dream. He was going home a hero, to the woman he loved, to the hills he adored – a happy ending!

It was December 1814. His long journey was close to the end as he got out of the mail coach. The hills loomed before him.

“Ye be better tae bide a day or twa here, the weather looks gye fierce up there,” advised the coachman.

“It’s hame,” replied Donald. The coachman had no idea what Donald had been through. A wee bit of snow was not going to stop him sleeping under his own roof. He was impatient, and he was almost home.

But after a mile the weather closed in. A blizzard engulfed Donald. In his younger days this was normal. But he had spent years in the heat of Spain. And he was wounded. His strength began to ebb away. The hills merged into one blazing white storm and he lost his way.

The following morning was calm, and Donald was found stooped behind a dyke. It looked as if he was sleeping, but he lay dead, a mere 30 minutes walk from his home.

He was buried with full military honours in the kirkyard of Saint Bathans, just beyond the boundary of East Lothian. The tragedy was too much for Mary. She was sent to Edinburgh to help her recover but by spring she joined Donald in the kirkyard, where they both rest together. She was only 19.

And so Kate was right. This beautiful place can be dangerous in winter. Winters in days gone by were much more harsh, of course, but even on this spring day, as we travelled in the comfort and safety of a car, the hills reminded us of the power hidden in their remoteness.

We stopped for a moment close to the ruins of Gamelsheil Castle, but mist completely covered it. I thought it would be a good place to tell the tale.

“Up there in the mist,” I said, “there are the remains of an ancient castle...” But then I was interrupted.

“Dad, I need a pee.” My storytelling had to wait...