Wildcamping. Part Eight. Under the stars.

 

Tuesday 28th 

sound diary: https://youtu.be/alkTWLGd0jU

And so, I opened my eyes at around 5.30 am. Quite naturally so; not nudged awake by cold or damp or river water. Nor by gouging bull horns, trampling horse hooves, probing mole noses. I lay and thought about what clothes I had that were dry. Those would be the ones I was wearing, in the sleeping bag. The river (or rather my poor judgement) had waterlogged any aspiration to wild camp again, south of Inverness. I was pleased to have stuck it out very nearly to the end, and to have remained in a buoyant frame of mind throughout. 

I have this notion that a journey only becomes an adventure after something goes wrong, and we lose control of the narrative, when we find ourselves summarily dismissed from our comfort zone. If I had booked a later train, say 3 days later, I could`ve stuck it out. Despite the damp, I could have returned to Glenfeshie and hunted for shelter. If I`d researched and prepared better (brought my map even) I could have made for Ruigh Aiteachain bothy [Roo-ee Etchachan]. Or, maybe there are caves or overhanging rock formations further up the Glen. Enough of a roof under which to gather dead wood. Peel old birch bark from fallen trees for kindling. I have dry matches, and so could have made a heartening fire in my bear cave (or Lynx cave; either may have been true once) then laid out wet clothes and a cold, foggy camera to dry. Constructed my meths stove and peeled open those tins of mackerel, the red onions and the couscous brought all the way from Glenbenna. Wits gathered, and dry once more, the air mattress and sleeping bag would be laid down on the cave`s earth floor. And I`d stare contentedly into the flames. 
However, there being wifi, I googled "backpacker hostel. Inverness" and booked a room at Castleview Hostel for £45. This felt like the right thing to do.
On the long cycle north, sandaled feet numb in the cold drizzle, I kept my mind occupied by recounting out loud the tale of each day. Tangling myself in the chronology and geography. Finally unravelling the puzzle of impressions into a linear, map-like story. How could so much happen in ten days . . .  ? And as I pushed and pulled the pedals, this tale continued to spin along. A few miles from Culloden, on a terrace of dinosaur limbed beech trees above the river Nairn I stopped at the Clava Cairns. 4,000 year old bleached stone houses of the dead. Contemporaneous with the Crannogs at Loch Tay, with an ancient Caledonian forest stretching across the Highlands, and with wolves and wild boar. I waylaid and "interviewed" a couple of brothers from Glasgow there. We`d talked earlier from the saddle so I knew they were cycling the North Coast 500 and wildcamping all the way. They spoke so eloquently about the simple joy and freedoms of pitching their tent somewhere new every night.
Culloden approached. Another memorial to the dead. My route lost its signposts, so I bypassed those killing fields. Riding through these city outskirts of poor and socially deprived housing developments I wondered if even today that battle scars its impact-zone like some cultural Hiroshima.
Reaching my night`s lodgings, demoted from Castle View to Budget  Rooms a couple of doors down Ardconnel Street, I luxuriated in a hot shower. My recently redecorated room was heavily perfumed to disguise its being in the basement. But I didn`t mind. It was clean and warm, and the staff were friendly. I arranged damp items of clothing around the electrical storage heater, texted myself the entry codes, and made for the town centre. 
Now I sit, in a window table at Hootananay`s. Sipping from a cool, creamy pint of Guinness to wash down chicken pie. Loving the sense of living in this particular moment, after such a rich train of consecutive moments. Almost the entirety spent alone, but in the company of nature. And supported and encouraged by a virtual community of friends. Thank you friends. 
Earlier, outside the fine baroque-looking Town House I`d encountered two identical stone sculptures of wolves, flanking the entrance like hard, compact bouncers. They are new carvings, still promulgating the myth of wolf as devil incarnate. Each of these snarling, threatening creatures pinions a human skull under its forepaw. The other symbol that caught my eye was mortared into the stone facade of another High Street building. Choice evangelical trigger-texts such as "Resist the devil and he will flee from you" and "Whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into the lake of fire". And both instances highlight the nub of the matter, for me anyway: that we fear nature, fear our own natures, and therefore seek to control, dominate and eradicate elements we perceive as existential threats.  I`ve just read a poem from the Highland book of Minstrelsey (written nearly two hundred years after the last wolf in Scotland was killed): 
He steals the sheep from the pen,
And the fish from the boat-house spars,
And he digs the dead from out the sod,
And gnaws them under the stars.
One day, perhaps, we may learn to stop demonising the "other". And it may happen that, given time, apex predators will return to Scotland`s budding, regenerating natural landscapes such as at Glenfeshie, and will take their place once more within the family of a wider symbiotic community of creatures. Of which we are but one. One day perhaps we`ll shake off the mindset that uses the verb "to conquer" when describing encounters with wild places. It`s all a muddle to which I don`t have solutions. Especially not after this my second pint of Guinness. 
Here`s to Sustrans and the National Cycle Network, to our precious Right of Responsible Access, our National Parks. And here`s to you, and your very good health. 
Sláinte.