Saturday 18th July
Before I left Glenbenna, goodbyes having been exchanged earlier, there being nobody at home, having trimmed the front hedge and cut the grass, filled the dishwasher, wiped down kitchen surfaces and replaced pale green, biodegradable bin bags, I thought: I am divesting myself of home and family. Travelling light.
Already a sense of liberation as I rolled along by the Tweed on Route 1. And then later, when climbing up to Blackhope and just before the views opened out panoramically from the Moorfoots corridor, the buds of loneliness, the smart of letting go and leaving.
So, as the stomach mildly churned in response, I brought loved ones to mind in a kind of rhythmic pedalling mantra, which gently pushed me out, as though from my heartland`s beach; as though wading knee, groin, then chest deep in salty coastal water. Then floating. Beginning to sense and harness fresh currents; sea heave beneath me, wind flow at my back. Losing sight of familiar coastline, rounding the promontory.
Sunday 19th
Building a Nest
For my sound diary see
Somewhere above Bridge of Allen. In an airy birchwood at the crest of a long rise. Mossy, twiggy, birch-leafy undergrowth, and a picked-clear oblong for the tent. Feeling more at ease than yesterday`s internally bumpy transitions; If I were now a boat, my legs the creaking oars, a rudimentary sail has been hoist. I have surrendered to the weather`s forces. I busily erect the tent. A process that`ll become lighter and muscle memorised as each day passes; my body increasingly supple.
10 days I`ll be outside night and day. I`ll bask in sunshine. Lean into the wind. Put up with the rain. Shelter from the worst of it. Scuttle into dry places. If needs be curling up in sleeping bag wrapped in a survival sack. Warm and dry.
Lying face down on the air mattress to write, so the pen works, my ears prick at voice-like sounds that are wood pigeons. Warmed by one mouthful of Laphroaig and two squares of sea-salty chocolate. Both gifts.
I could listen to yesterday`s musical recordings made with my brother in his Edinburgh home. And I could`ve been taking photos of the long, golden sunlight and blue shadows, glancing over bark, glowing through birch leaves. Or recording the soundscape. That`ll come: Tonight, after writing this, I`ll read to the wind-up torch. Hopefully sleep will come too, and throughout the night I`ll rest and dream; oblivious to snufflings in the undergrowth, gnawings at the tent skirts. Coasting over imagined moles poking up at me through thin tent membrane.
 |
| Earlier. With my brother at our primary school in D`Mains |
 |
 |
Where Graham headed back to Edinburgh |
 | ||
|
Where I saw an osprey
 |
Finding a campsite beyond Bridge of Allen |
I`ve started to make recordings. Spoken word as well as soundscapes.
And I saw an osprey over in the field south of my campsite. Perched casually on a fence post it was, by a flock of nonchalant sheep. And then another later in the day. Flying over me as I picked raspberries, by the single track climb up to Drumloist from Doune. I was remembering how enthusiastically my brother had harvested raspberries on the coastal path to Culross, just yesterday.
Today I ate without discernment; if they looked ripe and ready yet harboured unobserved little beasties, all the more protein. By this time I had acquired my emotional ship`s legs (to stretch that metaphor one last time) and this was consolidated later, as I sat on a bench in Callander devouring a hot meaty bridie, 2 plain rolls and a pint of milk; a fond farewell to comfort food. Though I didn`t know it at the time, from then on it would be wholesome fare. I watched the people in their dawdling clusters, inside their own “bubbles”, or alone like me and the very big motorcyclist eating a bag of pastries. All of us newly emerged from Lockdown. I thought about the well heeled town of Dunblane I`d passed through earlier, rolling along route 765. What I saw partly supplanted those mental images I`d gathered, which were all about the massacre and tennis and Andy Murray. This was a beautiful, placid town. Here, the cathedral. And there just above it, a primary school. Associations chimed and tolled. And so I cycled on. No wish to be a tourist. What a cataclysm to have visited such a douce place. What deep scars.
What of the day … ? Too many impressions: seeing on a noticeboard that I`d been wildcamping in Kippenrait Glen close by the cave which had served as inspiration for Ben Gunn`s den in Treasure Island. And that Stevenson had based Davie Balfour on a couple of local residents. Increasingly, places I encountered such as Stirling Bridge, Sheriffmuir (and Culross with its Outlander connections) resounded with stories from Scottish history and popular re-invention.
And at another level the Ochils hillfoot towns, and Doune, Ardoch, Callander, Bridge of Allen, Bannockburn were repositories for my own family story; my father`s land and his people. In fact I was loosely following in the cycle tracks of his grandfather, Robert Morrisson. As well as owning a tailor shop in Stirling and being a JP, Judge Morrisson (as he was known) cultivated mushrooms and even tobacco in a disused railway tunnel. But more significantly, well into his 70s Bob Morrisson loved to cycle the quiet Trossachs roads by day, hostelling by night.
The constant cycling and tender behind are becoming normal now. The organising and re-organising of items, Donning and removing warm layers and waterproofs. Unslinging the camera for a photo. Even the elaborately finicky pitching of the tent, I`m adapting to. I expect soon I`ll get soaked. There`ll be a whole day, or more, of cold, penetrating rain. I studied it in those clouds hiding the Trossachs mountain tops, as I pushed off into the national park. So I shall take each moment and day as it comes.
Somewhere, as I stretch out here on my stomach, on the air mattress, a man is singing. But drunkenly. In a house or holiday cabin across the Glen. I`m pitched a couple of miles beyond Balquidder. Hidden behind a cluster of ferns. A midgie metropolis. I`ve unpacked the survival blanket, which turns out to be a red, heavy duty plastic bag. At hand to clamber into if as cold as last night. The “two man” tent is so small each movement is a yogic contortion.
And I recorded some guitalele music. The “snowfall” tune I learnt at Aberdeen Classical Guitar Club many years back, half remembered and now adapted for a midgie-filled open air evening, cocooned in midge proof netting. I shall try to develop the piece, and those earlier Edinburgh ditties, when more time is spent at campsite. Perhaps at Loch Tay tomorrow . . .
 |
The road to Drumloist |
Below the tent
Tuesday 21st July
Hunting and Gathering
Lying with my head to the riverTay, rich and sonorous. Comforting, lulling.
Earlier, I had climbed Glenogle to the sound of chifchafs, following the old railway line. Seeing the viaduct from a whole new perspective. It`s always had a romantic, decayed Victorian mirage quality in all the years I`ve cycled, driven, or been driven past on the busy road the other side of the glen.
Then descending into Killin I munched on smoked mackerel, skin and all, oatcakes and apples. My plan was to saunter slowly up Loch Tay, until I found the perfect camping spot, probably under a grove of pine trees at sandy water`s edge. I`d erect my sleeping quarters then scramble among rocks in late afternoon sunshine, taking photos, recording sounds. But Loch Tay was disappointing. The road narrow and steeply undulating. Snakelike. Frequented by vans driven by tradesmen building or servicing the long scattering of fine houses sat at every prime location along the loch side. These alternated with sporty soft top holidaymakers driving between Killin and Kenmore. Slightly downcast I calculated how many more wild camping nights to go. I was not yet halfway and Saturday`s B and B at Glentruim seemed ages away. What if there was constant rain `til then ? Or if the bike frame snapped under its ridiculous weight ? I was hankering after the beauty of the Trossachs with those orderly designated cycle lanes, wooden chalets and cabins at lochside. Nature set apart and protected …
However this mild despondence was short lived. The back brake jammed, so I stopped and removed all luggage and tinkered with the moveable parts until there was flow to the wheel once more. And this practical diversion set my mood on a lighter path.
At Kenmore, tucked away beyond a new holiday resort at the waterside, I spun past the Scottish Crannog Centre. The stilted iron age house bearing witness to different ways of living. Returning, I glimpsed workshop areas in the centre compound. Woven basketry, wooden pots and dishes, leatherwork. Ancient technologies behind the wattle fence. Saw a sign: re-opening on 1st August. Then chatted to a young woman locking up. This, it transpired, was Charlotte who, despite a definite northern English accent, was from Nantes. She described with real enthusiasm the centre`s vision “post pandemic” for the 21st century. Signposting ways of living sustainably and alongside the natural world. I told her my trip was being art funded and that a part of my own “vision” was to celebrate sustainable means of transport (ie cycling the Sustrans routes), and our right of responsible access (ie. that we can wildcamp) as well as investigating projects en route that were bringing about positive environmental development. I`d be creating a narrative, films, prints and maybe sculpture from my impressions and encounters. I asked if I could record our conversation and she introduced a colleague, Rachel (who was more involved with the crafts side). They invited me into the compound and spoke with passion and profound knowledge about the iron age crannog dwellers and their communities: of the woods used in constructing their buildings and tools, of the hundreds of identified shell, nut and other food sources they`d utilised. The mysterious uses of cloudberries.
I came away warmed by the glow of our conversation. Repurposed. Reminded that this peregrination north isn`t just a footloose cycle run, valuable as that can be. I was hunting and I was gathering.
 |
Glenogle |
 |
Towards Killin |
 |
Falls of Dochart at Killin Loch Tay  |
Fast forward to 1st August
Lovely photos!
ReplyDeleteInspiring - maybe next year I'll do something similar. Keep meaning to pack up the bike and set off camping. Used to do it more but the rain and midges are too often the main flavours of Scottish camping.
Absolutely agree about midgies and rain. Though a midgie net / hat really helped this year. Rain ... the pits !
ReplyDelete