Wildcamping. Part One. Letting Go

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.

I went on to hoover the bathroom, hall, livingroom, kitchen and back porch. Always this wish to tie up loose ends, put what I can in order. All neat and ship shape for those I was leaving behind. By midday, all being “resolved”, made tidy enough, I climbed onto the very heavy bike. Slightly concerned it might buckle or break between home and Inverness 315 miles away. Unaware at this stage that all those AA batteries, the bulky Trangia stove and flask of meths were white elephants. Cadging a free lift.

 

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

https://youtu.be/sKKyZlOf3oI  

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

Stirling Bridge

              

                                                     

                                             Where I saw an osprey

Finding a campsite beyond Bridge of Allen

Monday 20th

Beyond Balquidder

Sound diary: https://youtu.be/4YB79Y1q3So

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

                                

Callander

Entering the national park

Gateway to a camping place

The one time I used the cooking stove

Below the tent

Campsite the following morning

Tuesday 21st July

Hunting and Gathering

Lying with my head to the riverTay, rich and sonorous. Comforting, lulling.

I reached Aberfeldy after looking and looking for likely camping places. Perth and Kinross: rich farmland, huge fields either growing crops, or containing livestock. Or much too close to houses. I had the merest glimpse of what a refugee might experience. But then the un-similarities and my privileges knocked that notion on its head.

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

                                                  

                                                   The viaduct at Glenogle

Towards Killin

Falls of Dochart at Killin

Loch Tay

Charlotte at the Scottish Crannog Centre

Fast forward to 1st August

Flights delayed

As the crow flies, I ran a kilometre or so into the hills yesterday, conscious of geographical constraints on our exercising. Not being a crow the ran route zig zags up the logging road south and then through the hills north then west, and then south again. To save energy I crossed the Bold Burn where an ash straddled both banks allowing me a steep short cut up through Glen Pest pastureland and into gloomy larchwood, not yet green, scattered with bleached sheep vertebrae and 60 years of unsettling tree bones. 

I was keen to arrive at my destination: a copse of fir trees, the other side of a steep gully that cut down from the Minch Moor plateau. Much of the surface landcaping up here is by bulldozer and other heavy forestry plant, and so your ankles need to pick their way carefully. But slowly, as the old boles and branches mulch down, the gully, the road banks and the gloomy larch and spruce woods are returning to nature. At least until the next harvest.

There`s ash and birch and wild cherry here too. Still quite dormant and unresponsive to Spring. Like travelling two weeks back in time from the valley floor.

And the sounds belong 50 or even 100 years in the past. A profound silence, but for trickling water, windsong, birdsong. No aeroplanes. And almost no people; just three solitary cyclists. Two in sky blue shorts.

I was up here to see the osprey pass over or settle in the pinewood canopy. I wanted to see, by the angle in its white wing, the high mewling cry, balsa light corkscrewing of a warm updraft, that this was not a buzzard. And in so seeing, settle mid run to watch and marvel. 

There was only deep blue sky. I felt a sense of loss, expecting nature`s cycles to be anchoring and constant . I hung around a good while; imagining the bird gliding her territorial circumferences. But as time passed the silence only deepened into a lack. 

So I ran back through the pine wood, turning into the larch wood, feet padding softly on a larch needle trail. And down eventually to where three logging roads come together and where the Bold burn levels out, quietens down, slows up, drawn across the forest`s northern edge to the big river.

Cutting Lino

It`s been a while, in fact just over a year, since  Forest Loper blogged: sharing ruminations and observations, from my vantage point at the edge of a large and hilly forest in the Scottish Borders.
The majority of contributions are the happy by-product of trail runs; up, over, through and around the many paths, logging roads and non-paths criss crossing the Elibank and Traquair forest that hugs the villages of Innerleithen, Traquair and the hamlet of Glenbenna.

I trained as a sculptor, up in the be-wooded sculpture department at Gray`s School of Art in Aberdeen and above the river Dee. Over the years, I`ve tried to maintain and develop my work. However, sculptures (especially if they involve very large hunks of tree) are enormously labour intensive:

Growing a Sculpture   http://forest-loper.blogspot.co.uk/2015/02/growing-sculpture.html  and                                                                                                                                      
The Rove of the Blue Blue Sea  http://forest-loper.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/the-rove-of-blue-blue-sea.html 

Some of my blogs have featured my lino prints. Mainly to illustrate an associated memory or rumination:

Ciara Shine  http://forest-loper.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/ciara-shine.html  
and
Marine Green, Bracken Brown  http://forest-loper.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/marine-green-bracken-brown.html 

Recently I`ve rediscovered lino. Lino cuts produce all kinds of happy accidents; its very process causes you to look at and depict a scene backwards and upside down. Its very black-and-whiteness provokes pattern making, cross hatching, stippling and dotting. The peeled off paper print never looks as you had envisaged it.
The particular scene I have depicted is the first in a series. (See the wee film above). It`s in part a celebration of Innerleithen; the hills, forests, mountain-biking and coffee houses. And while I`m not a particularly active participant these days I still get a buzz from these goings on.
Narrative is important to me and so, family friends feature: driving Landrovers, walking their greyhound Luke. And all, in some way, affected by the presence of a rescue helicopter on the scene. Not uncommon in these parts.
I`m very pleased that the owners of No1 Peebles Road (the coffee house in the print) love it and have purchased a copy for display.

This is a Limited Edition print of 100. If you are interested, please contact me at either:

rothiemurchus61@gmail.com   

or by phoning

01896 870 781