Wildcamping. Part Two. From the Riverbank

 

Wednesday 22nd

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

Now that I`m sitting in the warmth of the Tay Cafe I feel more at peace in myself. Grateful for the neatly presented bacon and leek quiche and by infectious laughter from the girl at the counter, who thinks cycling to Inverness is mad. Her Polish partner welcomed me over to a perch by the window. I was bedraggled. My sandals squelched from walking through puddles on the trek to town.

I`d slept really well. Waking at 7.30 to steady pattering on the tent canopy. A warm sleep, sedated by river noise, the rainfall seamlessly slipping into my unconscious soundworld around dawn. And into my dreams. Patient and persistant rain. Here to stay. I dovered until 9, by which time my bladder was saying: Time to get up. Then, back in shelter it was good to stretch, to stretch out like a cat, flex and relax those shoulders, forearms  calves and back muscles.  

Looking at the local weather forecast: today is the heavy rain day. Bit drizzly tomorrow morning. But better from then on. Unfolding the sustrans route map  Pitlochry is described as the last place to stock up on supplies, to have the bike checked over before the big push to Drumochter Pass, and beyond. 

After eating, I decided to stay an extra night, wait out the bad weather. I wandered the streets and lanes of Aberfeldy. Into the parks, over the golf course, across to the bowling green. A lady approached, walking two dogs. Am I the camper ?  I owned up. Slightly bracing myself.  She introduced herself as Ann who lives in one of the large modern houses over the fringe of my grassy pitch. They`d been watching me at dusk the previous day stamping up and down a bit, before putting up the tent. ( This act was designed to alert locals to my presence.  Should they object, now`d be the time to tell me. ) Ann was very welcoming. The farmer knew I was there and could see I was unlikely to leave a mess, being a cyclist. "I`ll bring you a coffee in the morning". 

Thanking her I set off again. Over to the community school. Maybe because this is a solitary journey, or because I`m father to three almost grown kids, I`m coming across memorials which trigger tears. Like Nigel at the viaduct before Glenogle. He was a 28 year old music teacher. Struck while cycling, by a passing car on the A9.  Or Sally whose 21st birthday was commemorated on a seat at water`s edge. In memory of happy times.  And Ewan. With skis, a football and a thistle crafted into the iron workings of a seat under the massive clocks at the community school. Died at 18. So very sad.

Then I think about Bob Morrisson who may never have recovered from the loss of his own son when still only a boy. 

Solitude can do this: bring stuff to the surface, into the light. There`s little to distract you from yourself

Wearing sandals as I was, and in cycle shorts and raincoat, between showers I was drying off somewhat. I walked up the Birks of Aberfeldy, trailing behind four elegant, good humoured, long legged Sikhs. The boys in black turbans. 2 brothers and 2 sisters I surmised.  We scrambled up to some  thunderous cataracts shouldering down clefts in a densely wooded glen. On a display board I read that Perthshire is Big Tree Country, and three local plant collectors are celebrated in this place: Bobby Masterson a 20th Century horticulturalist, as well as the Victorians Archibald Menzies and David Douglas (as in the Fir) who brought back exotic trees from across the seas.

Returning to my encampment, midgie free thanks to the powerful river, I sat with the guitalele and developed yesterday`s piece. Just as I finished recording a man wove down through the long grass towards me. This was Ann`s husband Laurie. "Come up for a hot drink ?" Immediately bundling guitar and audio into a bag we walked to the beautiful house to which they`d semi retired ten years before. He showed me the 300 hundred year old oak tree in the back garden, and, once I`d washed my hands, aware we needed to be respectful of distances, we sat on the terrace with Ann, who pointed out a red squirrel crossing the lawn.  Looking out over the river, the town and hills, sipping cold Mexican beer, we talked about Perthshire, the 10% or so East European settlers in the area "Warm hearted, hard working folk".  They described trekking in Nepal, Nevada, California. Both relishing their lives, grateful for what they had. Laurie called this valley "class blind" : no respecter of status or wealth. Nor what car you drove or house you lived in. It was who you were and how you acted towards others that mattered. And being "joiners" both had been embraced into the local community. This was food for thought. As an introvert, I myself am not much of a joiner... Saying our goodbyes Laurie asked me to close the garden gate, to prevent red deer from entering.

My one regret that pleasant evening is not to have pulled out the wee guitar and played them a tune or two to reciprocate for their kindness towards a stranger. Annie Laurie would have felt fitting.

Audio recorder with "dead cat"