The Golden Thistle Rose

Highlands, 1963. At 5:40 p.m., the mist rolled low through Glen Lyon, softening the hills to memory. Morven Jamieson found the small golden fork among her grandmother’s things — handle carved as a rose, stem twisted like the paths home always takes. Her grandmother had said, “A rose grows fine on soft ground, but a thistle blooms anywhere.” When Morven left for Edinburgh, she took it with her — a token of roots and wild grace. Years later, she had it shaped into a ring. The goldsmith traced the rose and smiled. “It still grows.” Now called The Golden Thistle Rose, it gleams softly — a Highland reminder that strength and beauty are kin, and that some things bloom best against the wind.