A Fall In Time: Week Eight

3rd to the 9th of November, 2010

Hello, it is lovely to have you here, as autumn begins to huddle closer to the ground in preparation for winter, leaves whispering as they slide to the loam to join their ancestors in rest, and the many baubles of fungi decorate all.

Back in 2010, in Scotland, winter was arriving early and, by the end of this eighth week, things were very much hanging in the balance for me.

This week, I mention walking right into the middle of a herd of deer, without them being any the wiser. In the video below, I am standing between two oaks growing closely together (not hiding behind, as I mentioned before, just standing as still as I can, leant against the trunk) and this hind has no idea I am there. The video is not the best (it was taken on my old Canon SX20IS camera, rather than a dedicated video unit), but it serves to show how close you can get to wild animals, if you are skilled, careful, lucky or, more correctly, a combination of these.

If you have no idea what this message is about (perhaps you signed up to my mailing list as a part of a book giveaway?), or why you are receiving it, head to this introductory piece, which also contains a chapter listing, with links. Below is the eighth week of A Fall In Time.

A Personal Appearance

The 3rd of November, 2010 was a day of writing, a day of sawing and preparing firewood. I also took a series of photos on my phone of myself, as I wanted to see myself as others had seen me the day before, and the tiny mirror I had did not suffice. It is strange, how a brief series of conversations had suddenly made me consider my appearance when, for weeks, I really had not thought about it.

When I had left for those woods, I had been clean shaven; now, however, I was increasingly bearded, increasingly woodsy, despite trying to keep the beard trimmed. I was keeping myself as clean as I could, but soot is difficult to remove and it is all too easy to disappear behind a layer of grime without a little care. You can see how tired I look on the photo, but at least I wasn’t begrimed with soot. My shelter sits behind me. I still carry this merino headover tube with me in my bag everywhere I go, and still use it all winter as a hat.

The previous day had been tough, walking back to camp and, especially, crossing the now storm-swollen, fast-flowing and much deeper and wider burn had been frightening, and I was glad of some camp time. At some point during the previous day, after I had left and before I returned, part of a tree fell across the deer trail I was using, after a lightning strike, all blackened on one plane, dark, and deadly. When I walked that way later, I felt a surge of relief it had not happened when I had been passing. The storm had been wild, hailstones the size of marbles, lashed horizontally into the face, black, clawing clouds, reaching down to the ground when lightning struck, and a wind which carried punch after punch.

On the walk back, after gratefully making it across the raging stream, I encountered a deer, head down and grazing in the small valley one over from where my shelter lay. For some reason she did not notice me at all, even as I walked closer. Once I was within a few metres, I thought I should announce my presence, as I had to walk exactly where she was—I whistled, and she raised her head, ears flicking, but still failed to notice me, going back to grazing almost immediately. Another few steps and I tried again, this time calling out a cheerful, ‘Hello!’ and waving my arm as if greeting a friend which, in some ways, I was.

She took off up the 45° slope in huge bounds, sinewy legs carrying her a formidable distance in each leap, until she vanished into the woods.

Over those months I became increasingly aware of the direction of the wind, of any tiny sound I made, of where I placed my feet, until I could move almost silently, on several occasions, walking within touching distance of deer. Perhaps my scent, more wild, less human, also helped, or perhaps they simply no longer considered me a threat.

It had reached the point where I was able to leave the fire smouldering for hours, oak being exceptionally useful for this, especially when banked correctly. I had found that I had been able to keep the fire going whilst I had visited Mallaig and, that night, I decided to see if I could keep it going whilst I slept. I was successful, being able to resurrect the embers quickly the following morning. Now that I had a bow saw—sent in one of the parcels from my sister—I would be able to cut thicker logs far, far quicker, and subsequently keep the fire in longer.

I had also been sent bundles of candles, not much use when camping with a hammock and tarp in Scotland, but remarkably comforting, warm and homely in a natural shelter. I cut plastic milk bottles and used the pair of empty wine bottles I had to make lanterns, the glow surpassing my expectations.

One other thing I had requested was a planisphere for my latitude. With this, I could learn more about the night sky above me, something smartphone apps make relatively simple, these days. As the sky had cleared towards bed time, I began the process without even leaving the shelter, learning the names of two new-to-me stars, and three constellations I didn’t previously know—all from where I sat by my fire.

There is little to no light pollution in that corner of the world, and plenty of sky to search. Over the coming weeks, I was to learn a lot more, see shooting stars a plenty, and also the glow of the aurora. This last was not as clear or pronounced as it was further north, and my northward horizon was covered by hills, but I was pleased to see the faint green in the sky, nevertheless.

To stand out in the dark, the owls around me and the stars so bright, is something I recall still, as clear as if it had happened last night. When the snows fell and the moon was up, it became even more ethereal, otherworldly, those constellations a home of sorts and the stars friends.

Night was already long, and it was a welcome change to be able to use that time for something other than sleeping, carving, and writing.

Lists and the Practicalities of Saws

My journal from the 4th of November, 2010 is full of ideas, of lists, and things for the future. The shorter days and lack of daylight meant I was spending considerably more time in the shelter, sat on the bench I had made, or on a log on the floor, my back to the bench itself.

It is an interesting observation—personally, when I am out in nature, it does not take long until I find our ‘normal’ chairs uncomfortable, much preferring to sit on a log on the ground, or even to simply squat, heels down, body comfortable in this position. Before I left Scotland, some years after this particular adventure, I worked hard on that squat, as I found it counteracted sitting in a chair to write, then, when I arrived in Thailand, I realised this is still the default resting position for much of the world—in the ‘west’, that lazy shorthand for ‘white people’, we have somehow mostly forgotten how to squat, our bodies often unable to even get into this position, let alone maintain it yet, if you look at any child, it is normal for them.

The lists I crafted that day were varied: things to make and do, ideas for 2011, ideas for the rest of my life beyond that, letters to write, directions to take, and so on. These lists really are varied: ‘go fishing’, ‘charcoal cave paintings’, ‘list what is actually important in life’. After I had recorded these, I also added a caveat:

…mention the modern concept of ticking things off ‘been there, done it’, as opposed to the slower way of life I am embracing.

Journal Two. 4th of November, 2010.

I was finding the addition of the bow saw invaluable, saving time and effort and ensuring I was quickly building up a stash of firewood. One important thing, that I had not thought of prior to receiving the saw, was the issue of space. Without the bow saw, I had been forced to either collect thinner wood that was easy to cut through with my folding saw, or collect thicker logs and leave them uncut, using the fire to section them into two or sometimes three.

This works well, why put effort into cutting logs when an open fire can do the job for you, while you cook on it and keep warm at the same time? However, it did mean much of the eastern and northern sides of the shelter were taken up with longer logs, waiting their turn to burn. They would not stack as easily as 60cm (2 feet) sections do, and needed to be easily moved. Now, however, I was collecting, sawing and stacking merrily.

After this, I vowed I will never head out into the woods for an extended time without a longer saw again: they are so very useful.

So, the fourth, like the third before it, was spent writing and dealing with firewood. I took no photos on this day, but would make up for it in the coming days.

However, later that week, things started to get a little bit worrying…

Forest Pools and Full Days

I thought I heard a gunshot, and then another, and another. It took a few more for me to realise it was Guy Fawkes night. Fireworks! You fool!

Journal Two. 5th November 2010.

That evening, I stood out in the dark, rugged crags and cliffs below me down to the sea, the owls hooting and the deer barking when they realised I was near, watching distant fireworks and counting until I heard the noise. My journal records that I also saw five shooting stars and an owl, which flew close enough to my head that I felt the downdraught of wings pulling up, screeching call right above me. The temperature was dropping rapidly, and I was glad of my woollen layers and a fire to which I could retreat.

This day had been full. I collected and processed more wood, aware that the temperature would only keep falling. I also began thatching the shelter with the next layer, of leaves and detritus from the forest floor, gathering it in my poncho and then building it from the bottom up. This is one of the best ways to add insulation to a shelter like this, it makes the interior so much warmer, cutting any and all draughts and maintaining the heat the fire created. Despite the smokehole, there were enough pockets of air in the shelter to stay warm and, the longer I stayed, the more I burnt, the warmer the rocks became, absorbing the heat and then warming the shelter at night.

(This was to be something I worked at, the following year when I returned, building a large raised stone fireplace, with an integral oven, which radiated heat and made cooking much easier.)

As I finished a layer of leaves, I would cover it with a roll of living moss, and the shelter began to simply disappear.

The trees around me were putting on a stunning display of colour some, like the alder, still green, others multi-hued and glowing with the vibrancy of autumn. I think my favourite tree in the fall is the birch, the leaves seem to scream sunlight and gold, as they change rapidly, then fall, decorating the ground, the pools, other trees, wherever they float.

I walked and took photos, especially of little details and the colours, the one of the trees reflected in the water is my sister (and editor)

Lydia Crow

’s favourite photo from that time. These pools—left by the storm—were still, and reflected all life within them, including my own. I found it hard not to sit and gaze and ponder. Now, with the power of hindsight, I realise this was a truly meditative time, one where I could pause and breathe in all life as I watched the water and the trees above, below, all the time with no cares beyond those which keep us alive—water, shelter, warmth, food, a respect for all life, for the self, and for thinking about these in a calm, considered manner.

On this day, my Two Skull Shack changed its name once more, as I added another to the gathering collection. Three Skull Shack it was. For a time.

Of Deer and Stars

What an amazing day!

Journal Two. 6th November 2010.

My journal for this day is in list form, with small notes accompanying each point as I had been busy from dawn until long after dusk. I would write a longer blog piece about this day and those after, during which events took a decided turn for the worse.

The sun was rising later and later and the nights getting colder and colder. The sun still carried warmth, which felt degrees warmer than it actually was when it rested upon my skin as she rose, the night-scent of the forest rich and ancient, and the dawn chorus filling the air around me.

I continued to pile forest debris and leaves on my shelter and top with moss, and I continued to select, drag and carry back, and then saw many lengths of oaken logs. As I did so, I would often meet the deer, now released from the tight, jealous surveillance of the stags. They usually seemed somewhat confused to see me, when they finally noticed me, that is. On several trips to gather firewood, I would walk and silently approach hinds utterly unaware of my presence. Sometimes, I would not notice them either, until we both started—they bounced away and I stood still, admiring their inherent elasticity and strength. On this particular day, I ended up walking into the middle of about fifteen deer, before they even noticed I was there.

One of the questions I have often received after this experience was a variant of whether I would have been able to survive out there without supplies. The answer to this is never as simple as a yes or no. I could have done, yes, easily, had I broken the law and poached deer (there were so many too, too many), and built fish-traps and set snares and traps—each of which is pretty much illegal in the UK. If I had been forced to do so within the law? Probably not, but possibly, had I made more use of shellfish and kept using my portable lobster/crab creels. The fish were going deeper, or leaving, as winter approached, but the crabs continued to be available. Thanks to too many sheep and deer, there is a paucity of wild plants in parts of Scotland, at least compared to what there should be, and those which remain do not provide a vast amount of calories.

I am never keen to take life, and certainly not when I could buy and carry supplies. There is no need and it is a sad human who kills with no reason, or if the reason is simply to kill and take a trophy, with no need for the meat, skin, bones, antler, and every other part of the animal.

This said, I hunted daily, in so much as I tracked, followed and located animals, especially the deer (top tip—don’t ever hide behind trees, but stand in front of them, motionless. Animals see movement above all other things, so peeking out is quickly going to give your location away. Wear a hat or similar to cover your forehead and just remain still).

Teaching yourself to hunt like this is a good use of time and an excellent way to observe and understand the wildlife you find. The actual killing part, whether with bow, sling, or trap, can simply be practised separately, with no mortal cost and, in many ways, that is the easy part. The stalk, the ability to think like your prey—that takes a different mindset. (Of course, high-powered rifles make much of that irrelevant in our modern world, a dislocation I often ponder.)

On the sixth, I took some more time to experiment with different camera shots, trying to capture more of what it felt like to live out there—photos where there was no sky, or no sea, just a mass of colourful trees, for example.

I continued to consider time and space—such as the fact I could have shot an arrow to the other side of the glen below my camp, but to walk to the tree in the centre, beside the fast-flowing stream, would take me fifteen minutes.

After dark, I decided I would try and take some photographs of the night sky but the first shots proved rubbish—all I could see was a pixelated blackness. I altered a few settings and tried again. Still the same. I kept trying for about ten minutes but all I was getting was the same blackness, without so much as a pinprick of starlight.

No matter, I thought—I could always message my Dad for advice, as he’s very good at this sort of thing. I turned on my headtorch to pick up the planisphere—and noticed the camera still had the lens cap on. I laughed out loud at this, startling an owl who had been sitting unnoticed in a nearby tree. It flew away screeching—perhaps the same owl as on the previous day—making me jump, then I tried again.

This time, the results were much better.

Cassiopeia, Pisces, Perseus, Andromeda, Triangulum, Aries and Pisces.

Taurus (that’s me!), Pleiades, Auriga and Perseus.

Ursa Major, Ursa Minor and Draco.

M31 and the Double Cluster galaxies.

The names of the individual stars as exciting as the constellations: Mirphak, Algol, Hamal, Almaak, Mirach, Alpheratz, Caph, Schedir… A poetry of sorts, a spell, chanted through the ages. We have lost so much of this magic as we light our cities brightly, as we cross the sky with satellite after satellite.

The clear, cold nights, undisturbed by light pollution, meant I was learning much. It was rather pleasant to wrap up warmly, throw some logs on the fire so it would be blazing when I returned, then walk a short distance to watch the skies, marvelling at the breath-taking display I could witness just outside my door.

I was very late to my bed that night, that spell holding me entranced until almost midnight.

When I returned to my warm shelter, I even managed to snap a phoenix, rising from the fire.

The Dawn, The Treecreeper, and the Crystals

This wind is a little scary, again—I think it is the combination of direction and how many leaves have fallen, leaving ever fewer to break its passage. I hear it start down at the foot of the gorge, then sweep howling and hurtling towards me, snapping and cracking as it comes. I hope the shelter is as strong as I think it is, or things could get very interesting.

Journal Two. 7th November 2010.

The wind chill was ferocious, the weather feeling increasingly wintry. All the animals seemed to be quiet, conserving energy and waiting for the coming storm. I myself had slept like the dead, my journal recording ten hours without waking, despite the howling roar of the storm and the lashing and creaking of branch and trunk.

Dawn was now beginning to feel as enthralling as the sunset. Up until that point in my life, my relationship with the sunrise was nowhere near as constant or deep as when the sun fell. However, winter in Scotland certainly presents more of an opportunity to acquaint oneself with the rising sun and, day by day, I felt like I was being accepted into a secret club, waking in the dark and stepping outside to greet the sun as she crept into the sky.

When I was out gathering more logs for fuel, I saw a treecreeper (Certhia familiaris) clinging to a trunk, barely five metres away. It was not moving, and I thought that perhaps it was dead, its feet caught in the rough oak bark. I walked quietly towards it until I was standing within touching distance. I was about to raise my hand towards this tiny bundle of feathers when it suddenly woke up, fixed a liquid, dark eye on me and rapidly flew off, clearly angry at my having disturbed its siesta. It was lucky I was not a pine marten, fox, merlin, or wildcat. To be this close to a wild bird is always a thrill, no matter how many times I achieve such a moment—there’s something added to the wonder by the fact they can fly, as though I too am somehow made lighter, simply by proximity, by sharing that space.

Winter was beginning to thickly blanket autumn in leaves, piles of them building in the cracks and crevices, making walking mildly perilous, but providing handy piles of thatch with every gust. That day, a dusting of snow was sprinkled across the higher places and I awoke to find ground frost breathtakingly be-crystalled across leaves and sphagnum alike.

Those warm afternoons of October were now a thing of the memory and I was beginning to feel increasingly lethargic, a persistent headache an irritation. I worried it was the fire, which was smoking more, the swirling wind outside pushing it down into the shelter, or whether the low light inside was not helping my eyes. As grey clouds rolled in, they felt like a weather reflection of my mood. I felt an ache and soreness I thought must be all the sawing and carrying of fuel I had done, but I would soon discover this was not the case.

Of Fires and Aches

Lighting the fire this morning proved tough, everything was soaked through, but I did finally get it going.

Journal Two. 8th November 2010.

Fire lighting is a hugely important skill, and one that builds morale when you succeed. So much of it, as in any skill, is in the mind. If you think you cannot light the fire in certain conditions then your chances of success are slim. If you know you will light it, no matter how long it takes, then you are half way there, even before you start.

Since I started heading out into the hills and woods, many years ago now, I have never failed to light a fire when I have tried. I attribute much of this to my sheer bloody-mindedness, which in this scenario is a bonus (and to lots and lots of practice) and, as a case in point, on the morning of the 8th it took the best part of an hour to get the fire going to the point where I could safely leave it, knowing it would not go out. I did not give up, despite my firepit being finger-deep in water—I merely laid a number of oak logs over this and built the fire upon their raised platform, the eventual fire boiling away the water below.

I suppose the moral of this piece is this—if you are interested in anything at all, you need the correct mental attitude and the willingness to put in a lot of practice (and failure, that really helps you learn, too—you can fail to light a fire, over and over, right up until you succeed, and there’s no other feeling like that). Reading about skills can only take you so far, you need to actually do them.

I had arisen from a night of storms to find the mountains gaining an increasingly white cap. The wind, I later discovered, had been a steady 80kph (50mph), with gusts topping 160kph (100mph). As someone who had grown up in Orkney, this was not a big, big wind—but Orkney is not wooded. The crack, the snap and the boom as branches broke and twisted, accompanied by the shift and flexing in the ground, where the matted roots were shaken and pulled, was rather exciting and, at times, frightening.

The only damage to my shelter was a small, forearm-length square of moss covering, which was lifted and turned over. I replaced it, pegging it down with a twig or two and my home was repaired, just like that.

Strangely, despite the storm, I had slept straight through for ten hours, without waking.

Out of my shelter, leaves that had seemed lustrous and glowing only a day or two before now seemed dull, lifeless and dead. Everything began to be tinged in sepia, as the sky stayed dark, all colour apparently blown away by the storm.

I worked hard again this day, gathering many logs, carrying them back to my shelter and sawing them up into 6ocm (2’) lengths. As I worked, the wind continued to lash the trees with an angry ferocity and, sometimes, a branch would fall near me. I was thankful nothing larger than an acorn hit me directly, although even that, wind-thrown, hurt.

My woodpile grew and grew. Despite the freezing temperatures that day, I kept shedding layers as I sawed and split wood, until I was topless and still somehow too hot.

As the day progressed, my muscles and joints began to ache. I put this down to all the hard work I had been doing, and the headache which appeared towards dinner time due to the dim light in which I was working on gifts in the shelter.

Bedtime was not the most fun that day. I was feeling very tired and sore, my eyes and head hurt more and more, and I had begun to feel cold inside.

The Doctoring of A Parliament of Owls

It’s cold, and so am I. I’m struggling to keep warm at present, I think I might be fighting something off, feel achy still, and my headache has returned.

Later.

Not well. Worrying me.

Journal Two. 9th November 2010.

Tuesday the 9th of November had dawned clear and cold. My aches and pains had grown overnight, but at that point I was still sure it was from all my wood collection and preparation. For some reason, however, I struggled to get warm—my fingers and toes simply refused to do their usual thing and shun the cold. It is very rare that I get cold, my normal body temperature is usually a degree or more below that of others, and my extremities usually possess the same heat come winter or summer.

That morning, I continued thatching the shelter, accompanied as always by the robin who follows me. I would pause to write in my journal and rest and he would sit above me in the oak, probably wondering why I’m not up and about, providing him with more tasty insect treats.

I called my sister, Lydia, around lunchtime, having located a good spot of signal in the opposite direction to that I had previously been using. Instead of climbing, I walked down and sat on a log, watching the loch below.

Amongst other things, we discussed my aches and pains and incessant cold in my fingers and toes. As I was talking I noticed a lump below my ear—probably a swollen lymph node, proof that my body was fighting against something.

After this conversation, I felt a little brighter, all the signs seemed to point to my having caught something when I collected the parcels in Mallaig, something which had slowly incubated, but at that point I didn’t feel too bad so was not too worried. I went back to the shelter to warm up and make a cup of tea.

Try as I might though, my hands and feet remained freezing, then all of a sudden I was too hot. Then too cold.

This wasn’t good. Not at all.

A short time later, my headache was worse and the aching had returned, more painful and insistent than before, my eyes feeling hot from behind. As I lifted my billy can, I realised just what a precarious position I was in.

All my strength had disappeared and it was a struggle to lift something weighing barely two kilos (4.4lb). This sat in sharp juxtaposition to when I had easily hefted logs on to my shoulder not too many hours earlier, logs that weighed as much as I did.

As I drank my tea, my mind began to think of a real bed, or just a sofa to curl up on. Visions of hot baths and tea, food cooked by someone else, someone caring for me.

This was the first time since I had walked out into those woods that I began to seriously consider calling for evacuation, something my sister had mentioned was an option. I was lucky enough that I not only had my wonderful family in Caithness, but also two friends who were willing to drive for over eight hours from Lincolnshire to find me, if I needed it. That was humbling and I am not sure I ever thanked them enough.

But I didn’t call.

Instead, I had my tea and took some paracetamol, then stripped off for a couple of hours of dozing in my sleeping bag.

When I got up it was nearing full darkness, I still felt shocking but I knew I had to eat and drink something or I would get a lot worse and a lot weaker. I built up the fire and decided to boil some water, in order to have another tea and cook some pasta. Again, lifting the water bag proved a challenge and I nearly slipped and fell into the fire as I lowered the billy.

No, not good at all.

I drank the tea and realised I was too weak to cook properly. I shelved the idea of pasta and instead had a couple of apples, several spoons of peanut butter and some dark chocolate instead. Food was food, after all.

After forcing down these cold rations I decided to use the water I had boiled to have a good wash. Annoyingly, I could only manage to give my hands a good scrub before I was too tired, but I told myself this was no bad thing, as any lingering germs would be obliterated, especially as I followed the hot, soapy water with cleaning my nails thoroughly, then using anti-bacterial handwash to finish the job.

As I sat, realising how ridiculous it was that I needed time to recover from the exertion of simply washing myself, I noticed it was a clear, star-full night. This annoyed me. I so wanted to head out to view the constellations, but I was simply too ill to stand, let alone go out in the cold. The stars twinkled and seemed to laugh at me as I sat, alternately shivering then roasting. In my imagination though, and recorded in my journal, heroic Perseus reminded me that the stars would still be there when I was once again well enough to share in their splendour and stories.

My stomach began to give me a little trouble shortly after eating, growling and making worrying gurgling noises. I was beginning to get seriously annoyed—at that time of my life, I very rarely got ill, migraines aside, and to do so out there felt insulting.

I boiled some more water and poured this into my waterbottle, before taking more paracetamol and codeine and returning to my bed. Before I did though, I built up the fire and stacked a few logs within arm’s reach of where I lay, so I could ensure it would keep burning throughout the night. As I did, I realised just how lucky I was that I had collected so much firewood. Without a fire, my predicament would become so, so much worse; no heat, no boiling water, no cooking food… My decision to laugh at the storm and process so much wood had turned out to be the right one. Whether it had exacerbated the coming sickness, however, remains a question.

I knew I wouldn’t sleep, at least not straight away, so decided to do something I had not done in weeks and weeks and listen to some music stored on my phone.

Just as I located my headphones, I heard a strange sound.

A hissing, rasping noise was coming from the tree above my shelter. I wondered if I was experiencing aural hallucinations as the sound continued, scratches and clicks began to mix with the hissing, which was then followed by a hacking, a coughing, and then a chilling shriek.

As I leant out of my bed, eyes to the sky, a dark shape flew silently above, alighting in the same tree I mentioned the robin perched earlier. Then it began hooting in earnest.

Another owl a few trees behind me replied, then another, and another. I was surrounded by owls. For some reason this both thrilled and chilled me—was it an omen? Why had they chosen this night to congregate in the trees around my camp? Thoughts of the Alan Garner novel, The Owl Service, flickered through my head.

A parliament of owls, far more than I had thought could exist in my local woods. They hissed and they called and they replied to one another, over and over and then they were gone, all together, calling every so often to mark their passing. Were they migrating southward together? Or were they all the locals, coming to somehow keep a watch over me for a time, remind me of their wisdom and the depth of time?

I waited a while, until I could hear them no more, then I put my earphones in and played three tracks, my choice of Bat For Lashes seemed strangely fitting. However, even the soothing strains of songs well known failed to raise my spirits, instead, lines from the lyrics suddenly began to carry resonance, meanings previously absent or perhaps misinterpreted hitting home, hard.

The air began to cool rapidly, a strong and gusting wind arriving to shake the trees and I knew I was in for a rough night in more ways than one.

Feeling weak, feverish and confused, very ill, and rather sad I turned off my music, stoked the fire and fell into a fitful, dream-haunted and broken sleep.

What About You?

Have you ever found yourself out in the woods, or mountains, alone whilst sick or injured? (It is not a pleasant experience, at all.) Have you ever witnessed a gathering of owls? Do you, too, like to look at the stars and feel so very small that it is quite delicious? Of the photos I’ve shared so far, do you have a favourite? And why?

Finally

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To read the introduction to my autumnal—and by this point, rather stormy and wintry—2010 adventure, click here.

To go back to Week Seven, click here.

I hope you are enjoying reading this revisited journey as much as I enjoy sharing it. If you have liked it, please share with anyone else you think may enjoy the adventure.

I truly appreciate every share, like, and comment. I will reply to everyone who leaves a message—sometimes it just takes a little longer than others.

Thanks for reading,

Alex