Wildcamping. Part Seven. Waterworld

Monday 27th

sound diary: https://youtu.be/9p0gNQI0lJE

This was to have been a day of intermittent rain with dry spells. However, the revised forecast was for heavy, unrelenting rain and so I awoke once more to a steady drumming. I lay listening for variations, a petering-out perhaps... Hearing none, I rolled over philosophically, took up my £3 specs and found my place in the novel I`ve been carrying, nibbling on the last of those Orkney oatcakes, the lump of cheddar cheese. Snug and cocooned. I`d wait and see what happens, choose the moment to come out and explore.

Back at home, I live very close to the river Tweed and have noticed over the years, how it changes after heavy downpours of rain. It rises, sometimes rapidly. Even swells up to the top of the wrought metal pillars supporting the local road bridge. Remembering this I poked my head out of the tent flap. The mighty Feshie was where it had been. I was reassured, surmising this vast forest of a river valley absorbed excess water efficiently into its mossy, peaty, rooty foundations. So I started a new chapter. An hour or so later, dog-earing the page of my travel worn book, I bent myself into the various shapes and positions required, and was soon clothed, waterproofed, camera and audio recorder-ready to meet the day.

Riding the bike without panniers, tent, sleeping bag or guitalele, I whizzed along.  Knew that tomorrow would be a cycling day:  I`d be reconnecting with Route 7, camping somewhere south of Inverness. My train was at noon on Wednesday, so not much time left. Resting the bike under a large granny pine I retraced yesterday`s perambulating tracks and boardwalks around the four lochans. The water was a gun barrel grey, puckering drops scattering across its surfaces. Like goose pimples. Today blankets of mist muffled all sounds and sights from middle and far-ground. My senses were refocussed on the wetnesses nearby: sodden, clotted-blood-red sphagnum mosses, water beaded pine needles, bleached reindeer moss, columbine, cuckooflower, drooping foxglove. The sharp song of a wren. Heavy drops of rainwater thudding to needle carpet where I took refuge awhile. On a whim I stretched my arms around the sheltering tree, embracing but a quarter of its girth. I felt no reciprocal hugback. It seemed to hold itself aloof.

I thought about where all the creatures would be, and how well evolved they each are; lying curled in burrows, in nests or undergrowth, their fur or feathers naturally repelling and shaking off the rain. Warm and dry.

Without our ingenuity, our technologies, men and women`s furless, featherless bodies are defenceless against persistant rain and cold. And, over-reliant on these appliances, we`ve forgotten the craft and the art of survival. How to be naked in the woods. 

I returned to my tent before the damp permeated the skin of the thin waterproof jacket. River level was where it had been before so I shook off my sandals and jacket, climbed into the plastic nest, opened up at the folded down page corner, read a bit. And fell asleep. 

But there was a subterranean uneasiness to my doze. Floating in and out of my dreams were childhood memories of "What`s the time Mr Wolf ?" The frisson of creeping danger.

Emerging again after an hour, all sounds were as before. Just the rain beating time to river melody. Unzipping the flap to be sure, I angled out my sleepy head. Alarmingly the river had swollen to twice its size and speed, was now but a yard from the tent skirts. Scrambling into action, within 5 minutes tent, bags and bike were dragged to relatively dry safety and, breathing deeply, I began to hunt around nearby for another pitch. A little bit shaken. I no longer trusted the Feshie. Not in this mood.  Its whitenoise lullaby was now a hard raw roar to me. I wanted away from it. 

Everywhere I looked, the ground was a floor of waterlogged peat mosses. The rain wasn`t letting up. It made sense to pack everything away and find a quiet, well drained field or woodland beyond Feshiebridge.  And by now early evening had arrived. Setting up camp by torchlight would be challenging. 

And so I left wild Glenfeshie. We skimmed, bike and I, the wet roads to Lagganlia, the outdoor centre, where I`d spent a skiing holiday, during the final year of primary school. A notice said it was closed due to the pandemic and so I seriously considered breaking into one of the wooden armadillo huts. Then decided not to ...

Eventually, as dusk fell, I skated the slippery road into the Rothiemurchus estate and found a saturated field of tall grass in which to lay down my tent and my sorry head. Vigorous rubbing with the microfibre towel dried well enough my mattress, sleeping bag and the tent floor. And warmed me in the process. I peeled off clothing that was wet. Salvaged and separated the damp from the dry, found my warming Findra socks and beanie, pulled the sleeping bag as far over my ears as it would go. And slept.