By: Vague
…then I’ll begin. I thought for this blog entry I’d tell a seasonal tale, but first let me set the scene.
It has currently been raining for nearly twenty-four hours, more or less non-stop with a break in the morning thankfully, just as I got up to light the fire.
As I write this it is dark, the wind is howling in the trees and the fire hisses, spits, pops and tinkles as rain hits it.
Despite the rain I managed to collect several large bundles of bracken, and do a little thatching. My shelter is now nearly completely covered in bracken; it has made it a lot warmer and substantially more weatherproof. As I’ve cleared bracken I have begun to develop an intimate relationship with the forest floor; seeing all manner of insect life, a multitude of fungi (sadly only one edible, the rest unknown to me, save one; which would, had I eaten it, killed me over a number of days, very painfully. Had I eaten a tiny amount I’d have been away with the faeries for hours…), several dead trees I didn’t even know were there and an entire deer skeleton. The skull has now joined the other one I found a week ago, above the door of the shelter, the other bones have been collected and will be put to use in one of several projects I have lined up.
I have just had my dinner; on Saturday I went for a final resupply to Fort William, daylight or lack of it will prevent further journeys there. As a treat I bought some steak (eight sizzle steaks for £4; pleased me) and I have just had the last two, done rare with half an onion and a pepper, fried in a generous quantity of butter, then served in two tortillas with extra mature Scottish cheddar.
I also bought a bottle of wine (South African Shiraz Cabernet Sauvignon) and I’m just having the last of that now, along with some Bourneville chocolate. On Saturday night, as I sipped my wine out of my tea stained and wood-smoke smelling mug, I lamented the lack of a glass. On Sunday it dawned on me that I did have a glass after all and I’m now enjoying my wine out of a well washed peanut butter jar. (Beats the mug hands down.)
Controversially I have made a bid to ditch the cigarettes again. I say controversially because my current answer to this was to by a pipe… Now, stop smiling or laughing, it makes sense; not only do I only have two to three bowlfuls a day (less tobacco than the cigarettes) but also it is more in keeping with the slower rhythm of life out here. The ritual of smoking a pipe is one that goes hand in hand with the history of the mountain man, the voyager or the pathfinder. It also brings me one step closer to actually becoming a Ranger of the North… I said stop smiling.
While I have been sat here the rain has started coming down by the bucketful. I know this because the washbowl I put out to collect some more water is now full after about fifteen minutes. I have just had a fat and heavy, but very pretty, spider land on my arm and so far have had three visitations from a species of large moth I am not familiar with. All three displayed amorous intent towards my head torch. The first two times I turned it off, to stop them battering against my face, unfortunately they both transferred their love to the blazing fire. I felt guilty after this, so the next time I let the moth flap about, removing it when it tried to settle on my eyelid.
But back to the seasonal tale, I’ve digressed more than intended. This happened shortly after I moved to the area I am still camped in; a little over three weeks ago.
It was one of those beautiful late summer evenings that now seem a long time away, the sun was low, I was sat in my hammock, writing in my journal (I have now filled one Moleskine completely and on to the second one – actually, this reminds me of something I wanted to mention; the effort that goes in to bringing you these words. I have the easy part – I handwrite each blog entry, trying to make my scrawl legible as I then take photos and sharpen them on my cameraphone, before sending them via MMS to the long-suffering Editor, who attempts to decipher my garbled text, types it up and then brings it to you. Again, I digress, but I would like to say thank you to the Editor for going through these pains, I hope you’ll agree that it is worth it), generally hugely satisfied and at one with the world. It had been a cold night the night before so there were no midges (now long since a thing of the past) to plague me.
As I lazily swung from side to side, merrily scribing away, I heard something from the glen below me. I stopped and listened but could hear nothing any longer so resumed my word-smithing. There it was again. I paused, it sounded for all the world like children playing. Strange, I thought, after all I am currently miles from any house. I assumed it was a family out enjoying the last hour or two of sunlight, so I went to the lip of the corrie to have a look. There was no one there.
As I walked back I rationalised that they had probably entered the woodland on the opposite slope, the leaves, then much thicker than they are now, deadening the sound of their passing. I thought a little about it, but determined that logically that had to be the explanation and went back to my writing. Still, I kept stopping and cocking my head to see if I could hear anything more.
The following morning was also a beautiful, bright and sunny day. I had to collect some water and, because it hadn’t rained for a few days, I went down the hill to the burn below. When I was down there I remembered the sound of the children and decided this was a good opportunity to test my tracking skills.
Now, I’m not a bad tracker; I admit I still have a lot to learn, but I can easily track people; they are heavy, don’t often watch where they place their feet and generally leave a trail obvious enough to follow. I found nothing. Not a footprint, a broken twig, scuff, misplaced stone or bent blade of grass. I moved further into the wood, eyes scanning the ground, the bracken and other foliage that would give me a thread to follow. Then I found an indentation in some moss, only slight, but about the right size for a child. I scouted around and found another piece of the puzzle a short distance away, then another. I felt relieved that my tracking skills had not failed me and kept following the sign. Then I came to a muddy patch of ground, where water had seeped from the earth. As plain as in a nature guide there in front of me was a badger print. So, I hadn’t found the tracks of any children but I still followed the trail of the badger until it disappeared into a dark place under a pile of boulders. I was pleased with myself; I could now come back at dawn or dusk and watch as the bearlike black and white stripes appeared.
On the way back I started thinking once more about the children. Perhaps because it had been so still the sound had carried further than I had thought. I put it to the back of my mind, still rather excited about the badger sett.
That evening I was again sat back in my hammock, recording the day’s events and my thoughts and musings; I had made the most of the good weather (and sitting here writing this with a gale roaring outside, branches cracking off the oaks and flurries of leaves falling into my fire, I am very glad I did put all that effort in when it was still early Autumn); I’d started on the shelter getting the uprights in position and gathering other logs and poles I would use in the construction of the shelter.
Then I heard, again from the valley below, the sound of a woman singing. A little strange; it was a bit later in the evening, so whoever it was would have to hurry back to wherever they were staying. Unless she was camping down there, of course. I listened for a bit longer but didn’t recognise the melody and couldn’t make out any words. It wasn’t too surprising that someone was singing, it is something I have started doing a lot since I got out here, probably terrifying the local wildlife and giving anyone who may hear a bit of a laugh.
So, for the second night I went to see if I could locate the source of the sound. This time I took my camera, not for any strange or worrying purposes, I hasten to add, I’m not exactly a peeping Tom – my camera has a 20x optical zoom on it. I trod lightly, until I was again at the lip of the corrie. I could still hear the woman, definitely down in the glen, so I moved through the holly and oaks carefully; I didn’t want to scare her after all by breaking branches or a lot of noise. I got to the point where I could see the whole valley floor. Nothing, nobody there at all.
She couldn’t possible have disappeared into the woods; even at a run (a bit dangerous on the tussocky, and boggy and uneven ground) it was too far to have made it to the trees in the time she would have had. I was puzzled, then I saw the bracken by the burn moving slightly. Up here the bracken grows in excess of six foot tall in many places, and where it was shaking it was nearly seven foot high (I know this because it was exactly where I had filled my water bags earlier in the day). She must be doing the same or, if she was camped nearby, washing her pans or clothes. I waited. The singing had stopped but every so often the bracken twitched slightly.
I was about to go further, give a friendly ‘hello’ and see who it was when the green fronds of the bracken moved apart and a young stag bounded up the hill. I was surprised. I had been sure that had been where the sound had come from. The wind had picked up slightly, I could feel it on the back of my neck.
I then realised the stag must have caught my scent and another thought immediately sprung to mind; it wouldn’t have sat there had anyone else been in the vicinity, let alone if they’d been singing. A chill that had nothing to do with the wind ran down my neck and I headed back to camp, trying to convince myself the singing must have come from further away – the mountains and woods often distort and bend sound after all.
Those of you who know me, know that I’m a fairly rational sort of person. True, I have a creative and, dare I say it, romantic streak a mile wide, but I’m fairly level headed, especially when I’m doing something like this. It is easy to become scared by things up here, miles from the nearest house, alone and at times seemingly vulnerable. But if you allow these fears to play through your mind you are distracted, and when you are distracted a knife slips or an axe bounces and you suddenly have a very real, and potentially life-threatening, situation to deal with.
So I took a hold of myself and set about splitting wood for lighting the stove in the morning, before doing a little carving and heading to bed early, so as to make the most of the following day.
Then the following evening arrived. I had consigned the events of the preceding one to my journal and was busily making a blackberry and raisin steamed pudding. And then I heard loud men’s laughter, once more from below.
The hair on the back of my neck stood on end; I didn’t want to go look because deep down I knew I wouldn’t see anyone. By staying at camp I could convince myself it had been some walkers sharing a joke. For the third night in a row I had to calm my racing heart, take a few deep breaths and get on with the tasks at hand.
Since then I have heard voices on the wind, people talking when it is still and calm, laughter and on one more occasion children playing. It no longer frightens me as much, although sometimes I start to wonder if the isolation is playing tricks with my senses. A bird calling could be a woman singing. A deer barking a man laughing. Perhaps I am simply hearing what my subconscious wants to hear?
Or perhaps it is something else? An echo of a past now long distant? Whatever it is cannot hurt me, I feel safer here on the side of a mountain than I do in a city (not to mention that I have a large knife around my neck at all times and a stout staff and axe to hand). Perhaps it is simply something rational, perhaps this place is welcoming me by giving me aural glimpses of now long dead previous inhabitants?
It being close to Halloween, I’ll let you decide… but whatever you are doing, whether you are off to a party or not, spare a thought for this mountain man, alone in the wild, with only ghosts and shades of the past for company.
And his pipe of course.