“The heather hides the bones, and the flint remembers every spark.”
Heather & Flint is the companion fanbook to The Ballad of Callum James Roan — a collection of fragments, field notes, and the forgotten things that never made the headlines nor the hymns.
It gathers together the letters, dispatches, and half-sung songs of the world Callum walked through — from the Falklands’ black rock to the Yukon’s white silence, from Bosnia’s smoke to the lonely glens of Scotland where the ghosts still call his name. This is the record he nver meant o leave behind.
Within these pages, you’ll find:
Journal entries scrawled in blood, whisky, and weather.
Letters never sent — to the dead, to the living, to no one at all.
Songs and verses half-remembered from barracks and bars.
Reports and field scraps from wars the world has already forgotten.
Photographs, sketches, and witness notes from those who crossed his path.
The Heather Line — that thin, wind-bitten edge where the tame gives way to the wild. It’s where faith, fear, and fury sit down at the same table and share a flask by firelight.
Here lie the raw entries that never made it into The Ballad of Callum James Roan — field notes and torn pages too rough or too holy for the book. Shipping reports, unsent letters, and soldier’s fragments speak of the ghosts of the Covenanters, of blood in the snow, and sermons shouted into the wind.
The Heather Line is where the wild grows — and where the story still breathes.
Long before Callum Roan shouldered a rifle, Scotland had already signed her name in blood and prayer. The old Covenanters — men like George Wishart and the Prophet Peden — fought not for crowns or coin, but for the freedom of conscience, the right to worship beneath an open sky.
Here in Heather & Flint burn the echoes of those hilltop sermons and hiding-place psalms: scraps of testimony, fragments of outlawed prayers, field notes written with trembling hands. They remind us that faith once cost everything — and still might.
The ink has dried on old Covenant parchment, but the promise still stands. These pages wrestle with the question that haunted every kirk and croft: what would a truly independent Scotland before God look like today?
Essays and reflections here call for the ancient covenant politics to be reclaimed, not romanticised — a nation answerable first to Heaven, shaped by justice, mercy, and truth. Between the heather and the flint lies a vision of freedom not granted by parliament nor purchased by sword, but renewed by repentance and resolve.
From the folk hills of Scotland to the gospel hollers of Kentucky, the airwaves carried their message:“We ain’t just playin’ music — we’re keepin’ souls company.” From that communion came Kingdom.rocks, It rose like a lantern in the mist, stitched together from static and stubborn faith, till every broken song and battered sermon wove itself into one long broadcast — the sound of two worlds meetin’ across the wires, Scotland’s heathered hills hummin’ to the rhythm of Kentucky’s red clay faith.
Cameos, side remarks, and quiet Easter eggs drift through Heather & Flint like smoke curling through a peat fire — fleeting glimpses of the wider songbook beneath The Ballad of Callum James Roan.
Here lie the yellowed fragments — torn headlines, soldier’s notes, a hymn sheet stained with rain and blood. Each one hums with unfinished stories, a chorus of clues linking Scotland’s glens to Kentucky’s hollers, the Yukon’s snowfields to the static of Kingdom.rocks.
Read close enough, and you’ll hear other ballads breathing between the lines — faint, familiar, and waiting to be found..
Their worlds brush past one another in the margins — a line of hymn shared, a place-name muttered, a borrowed prayer — hints that the ballads are bound together by more than blood or geography.
Even here, among the pages of Heather & Flint, the reader can feel the tremor of that unseen web. The universe is already connected, every tale casting a shadow into the next — Patrick O’Fearghal humming an Irish lament in a foreign trench, Samuel Pilcher preaching under a cracked bell tower, Dylan Llewellyn chasing ghosts along the Welsh coast, and Victor Robert Farrell keeping the ink lit at the edge of all their stories.