This week, I share three tales from readers who have been out ‘storying the land’.

The first is Clare’s climb onto the ancient Celtic fortress of Traprain Law with daughter Eve, where they were knee deep in tales, legends and prehistoric mystery.

Then a chance visit to an old farmhouse by hillwalker Graeme; it sits now lonely, with faded memory still clinging to its walls, but was once a warm beild some may recall.

And finally, an adventure worthy of David Livingstone... well, maybe not quite, but Donald’s quest to find East Lothian’s best waterfall became a tale in itself.

We have it all in our county, all we need to enjoy it is a sense of adventure and get out there and explore. And remember, there’s no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothing!

In the footsteps of a princess, a king and a beloved dad and grandad, by Claire Palmer-Fairbairn I saw the page on ‘story the land’ and it was so spooky, as I had just been on an adventure with my daughter Eve, doing just that.

Since we will not be away at all this summer, I hope to take her to all the amazing places my dad took me when I was young, except his stories are much better!

As a child, I was intrigued by the story of King Loth’s daughter and Eve was too. So we organised an expedition to Traprain Law! We explored Hailes Castle beforehand, which was deserted, bathed in sunshine and just magical. Then we headed for Traprain Law.

Eve shouted. I was trying to tell Eve all the information at the start of our walk up the Law but Eve was too excited: “Come on, let’s just go and see it, Mum!” So up we went, treading the same path I had walked as a wee girl with my dad, hearing all the history and stories as we walked. Fascinated by the same tales, Eve listened and explored, imagined and wondered if John Muir had maybe walked there too. It was a windy but beautiful sunny day and we sat talking fox gloves, beasties, wild ponies, King Loth, rabbit poo and how high up we were.

When we got to the top, Eve laid her wee stone on the cairn and was fair pleased with herself. It was a magical day. I thought what free and simple treasures we have that come to life when they’re explored and shared.

The old house, by Graeme Congalton As a boy growing up in the 70s and 80s, the Lammermuir Hills were a regular haunt for picnics and annual weekend hikes. The latter took more effort to prize me away from my Commodore 64.

In recent years, the hills have again taken me back, this time with minimal effort, and any gadget owned will accompany me in my left-hand pocket.

Beltondod Farm was never in my plans to visit whilst walking the Lammermuirs, the reason being that the ruin now sits within the claustrophobic metropolis of Crystal Rig wind farm. I have watched the wind farm grow with each turbine erected.

No sooner have I ascended from Deuchrie or Hartside, my pace increases, turning west along the Herring Road and out of such sights. The brief time I have on the Herring Road I take time out to wonder how it once looked when governed by the forests that can still be seen on Google Earth.

A rogue deer runs on by within the limits of a now fenced-off area within Crystal Rig. Looking as confused as I must do, the rogue asks what has happened here.

As I approach the descent just south from John’s Cleugh, Beltondod Farm catches my eye and I promise that I’ll pass by another day.

After several visit to the west side of the Lammermuirs, I turn my attentions back to the east and attempt Halls to Duns. Having managed to map my way round the veins of Crystal Rig, my journey to Duns would finally have me passing Beltondod Farm and Friarsdyke.

The weather was not kind, and with only an hour in I had to make retreat for shelter. Beltondod farm played host until the weather receded.

Upon approach to the farm, the vegetation had already claimed the box train carriage of Friarsdyke, giving me some taste as to what was the farm’s fate.

The windy farm road finally gave up its past and allowed me to walk upon the old path that runs through the farm. Omitting the sounds and sight of the blades towering the farm’s portrait, I pictured how this farm operated when in its full glory and the aforementioned trees disguising the house and barn from all around.

Sitting within the shadow of Spartleton Hill, the old place lays in a sad ruin. The roof is within finishing distance of collapsing and as I carefully stepped through what doors I could, the creeks were apparent.

Stumbling into what was the living room, what would have been a welcoming seat lay trapped in-between abandoned tyres. I declined the offer of its hospitality and moved on past the kitchen and washroom facing east, still armed with its Belfast sink.

Two 4x4s emerged from Crystal Rig’s very own Spectre and flew by me and the insignificant ruin. I too had to leave the sight and be on my way.

The walk to Duns was majestic, long and peaceful. Mother Nature remained kind to me, but it was Beltondod that remained with me throughout – a place I shall visit again, and perhaps in 25 years’ time when the turbines come down and the forest returns, who knows?

The search for a hidden waterfall, by Donald Gillies When my wife Margaret attends the service at Garvald Parish Church, I like to go for a walk in the surrounding area.

One such walk was prompted by the finding of a photograph on the internet of what is reputed to be East Lothian’s finest waterfall. This was too much to resist, I just had to find it!

The walk started along familiar territory, past the church and down the banks of the Papana Water.

After the first bridge, I branched to the right, up the hill, and soon found myself battling through undisturbed and dense woodland.

Eventually, I made my way down to the Thorter Burn, on which I knew the falls lay. They are in a deep gorge, so the only way to them seemed to be by following the burn.

I waded and scrambled through the water, over and under rotting fallen tree trunks, and eventually got to a point where I could see the falls.

They were still some way off, so working my way back downstream I came to the Laird’s Bridge, a narrow footbridge in an advanced state of disintegration. After crossing it and heading up the hill and upstream, I began to hear the thundering of the water over the falls.

Cautiously, I descended again, but suddenly I was on the ground, bruised but not broken. A rope in my rucksack aided my final descent to the falls (and later exit from them).

Not an expedition for the faint-hearted, but well worth it if you’re up for the challenge. Best done with a long rope and a few companions!