Gavin McLellan / Solo day

One of the tasks was to find ‘our place.’ Somewhere to be present dawn to dusk. To be cradled, feeling one with the earth, somewhere we felt connected, at rest, content.

The night before I had done some preparation; OS Map 33: Loch Alsh, Glen Sheil and Louch Hourn, pathway from Inverie towards Gleann an Dubh-Lochain, past the monument, though the wood, right fork over bridge towards Glen Meadail, past the Drum bothy, skirt past Torran Tuirc and there was my place. 839981 look it up! I found it almost immediately it was so inviting. A natural resting place, the stop on a hillwalk, a wedge of mossy grass on the bank of a stream. I felt it was wonderful, could easily pass a whole day here, looking east an amphitheatred vista of Gleann Meadail and to the west a V shaped window to Inverie bay with Rhum and Skye. I made a pillow of my pack and micro-slept in smug contentment. Gently at first it began to rain.

Rain and stones

It kept raining. My westward window indicated more to follow. Waves of Atlantic rain. My view of the monument faded in the mist, my barometer and forecaster for the day. I could no longer maintain a lying postion, I like fresh rain on my face but this was like a sprinkler system going off over your hospital bed when stuck in a leg plaster. So I got to my feet. The stream offered a diversion. I had time to look intently into it, enjoy every coloured stone, some glittering, fragments of the Knoydart schists glinting, some sandy others opalesque. Some impulse made me gather, then I sorted, soon I had two competing cairns of opalesque stones one yellow the other white. The yellows won, not that you care.

But I wasn’t the only one working. A black flash from time to time revealed itself to be a dipper. A hardworking sleek black bird, long and wagtailled, white breasted and industrious. Certainly no diversionary activity here, this was survival, dipping for food security, rock to rock, pool to pool.

Then another army of workers appeared out to harvest blood. Mine. The Glean Meadail midgies revealed themselves to be much like their West Coast cousions. I contemplated the midgie hood. For about a minute, which feels like a long time in extremis. I needed to move. But it would break the rules! No matter I calculated I had walked about an hour stayed an hour, that made it about 9am! Plenty of time for new place hunting!

Second place

I packed up and walked on, leaving the grassy bank at Torran Tuirc. Upwards, up the glen, I trudged, the rain kept on. Looking back the monument was gone, dissolved in grey mist. The tapping on my waterproofs increased its frequency, the rain was on for the day.

Where to stop now? I had real ‘place anxiety’ now! Now I felt I’d erred, surely everyone else was settled in their places now and here I was toiling on. I passed by slippery ledges, rocks offering doubtful leeward shelter. So on and on up the glen I pressed on. Wetter and wetter, getting tired, slipping, the mist closing in, narrowing my options. Soon a forlorn rowan tree gestured to my right. It did offer another grassy ledge and gave a sense of shelter at least an anchor in this storm. So there it was second place but no means inferior.

I lay down again and clung to my pack in foetal like desperation. All my previous experience of wilderness walking made me instinctively walk through rain; quicker and downwards. This was giving up weather; ‘oh well pub anyone?’ But not today I had to sit through this, maybe for hours! I estimated maybe 10am? Plenty of time for hyperthermia.

Rain in my face again I tried to connect, feel cradled, drink in (literally) and kept my eyes shut. Despite layering and waterproofs I was wet and getting shivery. Imperceptibly at first there was some heat reaching my face, the sun was slowing winning a battle with the clouds. Some time passed I had shifted position to face the sun, like a flower or plant straining for the sunlight. I began to connect a little, elementally, taking in rain and sun.

My life as a tree

With sunlight I came back to life. Hope revived, the day became a more bearable prospect. My rowan tree lent itself to close inspection. I had a lot of time to spend with it.

This tree was not well. Up above me was a resplendent rowan tree, nestled next to a waterfall showing off its clumps of berries like Christmas decorations. But here on the ledge things were sparse, spindly and sickly. Moving under it I could see how growing out of the top of the rock cleft gave it limitations; a misshapen gravity defying U-bend trunk, stunted branches, a smattering of leaves and shrivelled fruit. Like our treatment of the planet this tree was trying to sustain itself but drew too much on limited on resources.

I imaged cutting the tree down and counting its rings. Its thickness suggested several decades, I fancied it like me being about 40. How had our lives compared? What seasons, weather, colours it had seen pass? How many birds visited and taken rest in its branches? Straining towards sunlight, pushing roots in tight gaps for nourishing soil, scattering seeds? Whose life was the more life affirming?

Walk on by

People were approaching! This made me surprisingly edgy. I had time to watch their descent towards me. Their steps halting, deliberate over the muddy, rough rocky path. Surley they’s engage in greeting, I searched for the explanation for what I was doing. I imagined an exchange of hillwalker pleasantries and then on being asked where I was headed, ” Oh well actually it’s a kind of dawn to dusk challenge, y’know” and stroke my chin, gaze to horizon.

My line ready I waited to give reception. At this point I’d ascended up to the other rowan tree, amongsts its rocks and waterfall position. Minutes passed and then they were beneath me! They passed too! They didn’t see me or acknowledge my presence! Maybe the rain focussed them on the path or I had achieved a blend-in. I couldn’t help feeling slightly snubbed and chuffed at the same time.

Knoydart sound and vision

The light was changing. It had been changing all day, the bursts of sunlight amid squalls of rain. The heathers, brackens and rock faces had colour makeovers by the minute. It was thrilling to watch, even with a wet bum. Took my mind off it, the wet bum that is.

It was a dazzling and compelling display. Nothing like it to restore childlike wonder but takes the patience of a saint to wait for. I was now in the Knoydart gloaming. Time to leave. I felt slightly disappointed to leave the glen looking the best and most spectacular it had all day.

Leaving brought unexpected pleasures. I heard distant grunts. Guttural whinnies and groans. No human sound this. Definitely from the right. Up on the goldening hillside there were specks of red. A deer herd and the stags calling. This was a privilege an experience unmatched by anything in digital HD. It felt almost intimate to be overhearing these domestic familial utterings amongst the deer.

I had lingered too long and faced a march back to the tipi in the dark.