A Fall In Time: Week Four
6th to the 12th of October, 2010
Hello, it’s lovely to have you here.
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. Now, without further ado, here’s the fourth week of A Fall In Time.
Introduction: Nature’s Toning
Back in 2010, this was the week I began to move into my shelter, unfinished as it was. I continued to thatch and cover it, and even ventured back into the bright lights of civilisation, a bustling busy metropolitan centre, also known as Fort William (a small town of just over ten thousand people…).
The trees were updating their outfits to match the season and the air was noticeably cooler, especially in the early mornings. I was glad I had made the decision to stay put and live amongst those oaks and deer for a time.
Four weeks of this life in the woods was toning me, physically, yes, but my mind and emotional well-being were also being healed, gently (and, sometimes, not-so-gently) massaged by constant exposure to nature and the rhythms of a wilder place. The air was clean, the water tasted of the glens and mountains through and from which it flowed, and the smoke from the oak I burnt felt purifying. I kept writing, I kept listening, and I kept recording as much of the experience as I could, from dawn to dusk, and beyond.
Avian Shelter Cleaners
I have a companion in the form of a robin. He follows me everywhere, sweeping in to gather insects and spiders I disturb. This morning he has already gone over to the shelter—sitting on a log impatiently singing at me to get moving.
Journal One. 6th of October 2010.
I was to gather several avian friends, none of whom seemed scared by my presence, instead using it to further their own needs. Later in this adventure, when it got colder and the sun set, both the robin and a wren would sometimes come inside my shelter to roost in the far corner, utterly undisturbed by me, and delighting in the warmth and protection. Here they were safe from predators, protected from the worst of the weather, with handy snacks of spiders and craneflies on hand.
The robin loved it when I started weaving in the heather thatch. All those insects, whether spider or fly, meant it would spend most of the day following me around, going inside and out of the shelter, hopping from branch to branch, watching me and waiting for newly-disturbed insect life.
As I continued to thatch, I worked out how best to create a frame above the door, moving the heather up and over this, with the intention of adding my poncho to the wooden uprights, thereby adding weatherproofing but, crucially, also creating a chimney effect for the smoke, letting it escape through the hole in the middle, rather than swirl around inside.
By the time this layer of heather was complete the shelter was almost completely windproof. You can also begin to see how well camouflaged the shelter was becoming.
Getting Along With the Neighbours
An owl was hunting close to my camp last night. It screeched in the darkness, as though it wanted to tell me it was there. The deer continue to roar.
Journal One. 7th of October 2010.
At night, the noises in the woods were many and varied. I know some people who are scared of the sounds in the dark, but to me they tell who is close; however, although I have spent hundreds of nights outdoors, there are still sounds that I cannot explain or link to an animal or bird I know.
These voices remain a challenge, to one day be solved with detective work, perhaps checking for tracks in the morning, or ensuring I never underestimate the power of my nose—it is ridiculously poor compared to many animals, but it is entirely possible to scent a deer, or fox or badger when they are close.
On this day, my journal also records that, when I went to the latrine area, then came back to boil water for tea and to roll a cigarette, I noticed a white hair on my trousers, picked up somewhere en route. It was strong, but fine, not as coarse as badger. I was unsure what the species was, but popped it in the small pocket at the back of the Moleskine, where it remains to this day. Looking at it now, I’m relatively sure it is a deer hair, but still not 100%, as there is a darker variation partway along.
However, not all mysteries can be solved—to this day, I am not 100% sure what that particular owl call was, and I’ve spent rather a lot of time listening to various recordings (and found nothing to match the memory).
Twice a day, the little birds would flock to the area of woodland my shelter merged within. They had their rhythms and they had their calls: one for the buzzards overhead, another for the lightning streak of the hunting merlin, scything through the trees, for all the world like a miniature jet fighter.
As I grew to understand their warning cries, I would pause and try and see what had scared them. My senses, heightened though they were, were often simply not strong enough to locate the danger to my feathered friends, but that does not mean I was sure the danger was there. We do not always need to witness a thing to know it is real.
The mixed flock of little birds usually comprised thirty to forty long-tailed tits, blue tits, great tits, coal tits, and the occasional treecreeper. They did their rounds together, each looking out for the next, hunting insects around one tree, then moving to another.
It felt good to have some accepting neighbours as I continued with what my journal records as ‘Operation Chop Lot of Heather’, the ongoing thatching was exhausting, with many scratches and some deeper cuts. Heather is not a forgiving material, but it is a very useful one.
On this day, my journal also notes that I was beginning to consider when to head to Fort William for a bigger resupply (splitting the list into the headings ‘Protein’, ‘Carbs’, ‘Fat’, ‘Other’.
I also discovered, via a text message, that my previous local pub in Sheffield, The Wig and Pen, had gone bust. This felt strangely dislocating, a space I knew well no longer in existence yet, to me, it had already mostly ceased to exist anyway, replaced by oak trees and weathered rock, arrogant and drunken lawyers now bellicose red deer stags. It was odd, how one life could so quickly appear as though it now belonged to a shadow self, a half-forgotten memory, rather than the one I had lived for years. Nature can do that.
Slow Healing
On the 8th of October, 2010, I took no photos.
In my journal, I crafted a short blog post and also noted that the trees were beginning to lose an increasing amount of their leaves, the strong wind that day leaving deep drifts of them in gullies and against rocks, drifts I had every intention of using in the second to last layer of my shelter.
I continued thatching with heather, along with a trip down to the beach to collect a pack load of driftwood to split for my little stove, nine litres of water, and a pan full of dark, ripe blackberries, to cook for my dessert that evening (my journal records that these desserts became a regular thing from that day, as I found large patches of the berries close to my shelter).
The blog I crafted to send to my sister covered the details of the preceding week: finding the shelter site and beginning construction.
Interestingly, this blog post is framed in a manner which suggested I had not yet made up my mind about whether to stay in the same location all season long, or whether to walk on, northwards.
In my memory—backed up by the notes in my journal—I had made that decision. I am unsure why I framed it differently in that piece, but I suspect I feared judgement from friends I had told of my plan to complete a long walk. This has long been a failing of mine—I have not always shared the entire truth, omitting details in favour of what I think other want to hear*, rather than what I should have perhaps said. This is something I have done considerable work on.
In reality, I was doing exactly what I needed to at that time—I was out in nature, a part of it, walking slowly, sleeping well, thinking deeply.
I was healing.
*I certainly have Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria as a part of the rather curious package of Stuff In My Brain. This probably neatly explains that blog post.
The Uneasiness of Other Humans
It has been a very hot day—I could feel my skin burning at times. Of course, come about 1700, the midges appeared and I hastily split wood and lit the honey stove, grateful for the smoke as I made tea. I cannot wait until I move into the shelter and tend a proper fire.
Journal One. 9th of October 2010.
I have no photos from this date, too busy with completing the heather thatching. Once this layer was finished, I would be able to add my poncho to the door-frame and smoke from the central hearth would draw straight up and out. I had another three layers of cover to go on after this (bracken, leaves/forest floor debris/moss sheets), but I was keen to move in as soon as I could. The shelter did not need to keep rain off me, as I could easily rig my tarp within it if needed, and the heather would prove to be effective at retaining heat from the fire and keeping almost all of the wind from the interior.
My journal records my preparations for a planned upcoming day trip back into civilisation, in order to complete a major resupply. I had made the decision to travel to the town of Fort William, a journey that would involve a hike to the nearest train station and then one of the most beautiful train rides anywhere in the world.
With the nights getting longer and longer and the clocks due to change at the end of the month of October, I knew time was of the essence. I had no intentions of starving myself and Fort William offered more choice for less money. Whilst there, I could also buy some new dry bags, to replace the ones the mice had chewed through, and perhaps a few other useful items.
Despite this, and the promise of a fully-stocked wilderness kitchen (more tea bags! Coffee! Oats! Rice! Peanut butter! Chorizo! Rolling tobacco! [An ever-lengthening list!]), I was glad I had made this decision with plenty of time to mentally prepare myself; the idea of seeing and talking to other people felt alien, uncomfortable, and oddly unnatural.
I moved at the rhythm of nature, not the staccato and somehow fake beat of a railway timetable, but a slower, more fluid, music.
The red deer, however, were upping their own tempo, roaring and crashing together, fight after fight after fight; they woke me at 0230 with the intensity of their roaring and clattering.
When I went to collect heather for thatching and blackberries for eating, I startled a deer, who had been dozing in the hot sun, the night’s exertions and drama obviously requiring a siesta. My journal records that I yet again forgot to take my camera, but the memory is strong, still.
That night, the stars were ablaze, the Milky Way a strong splash across the night sky. The deer began again.
Loki’s Candles, Mummification, and Maps and Dreams
After a cold night, the day of the tenth of October, 2010, dawned bright and beautiful; the strength of the sunlight was enough that I could see my shadow all the way down in the glen below. I was becoming accustomed and acclimatised to the colder nights and enjoyed them, relishing that nip in the air and remembering how central heating had often made me feel dull and lethargic.
I had another night of strange dreams, including one about which I recorded the following line in my journal:
There was some sort of gangly flying deer that kept attacking people…
I even went as far as to try and sketch this beast. Even without revisiting that sketch, I can remember seeing these creatures swooping on others in my dream, trying to eat as many people as possible. Weird, weird dreams.
The trees were beginning to slowly shift into their autumn garb, reds and yellow providing a counterpart to the mainstream green. Oaks are often one of the last trees in this part of the world to hold on to their leaves—the slender birch were already losing theirs, ovals of acid yellow decorating the top of the pool where I gathered my water, lazily spinning down the burn to the bay and out into the ocean beyond. I wondered how far they would get.
In the north of Scotland, whether Caithness, or the islands of Orkney and Shetland, we find what are known locally as Loki’s candles. These are twists of thick birch bark, bundled together and cast on the beaches. They are prized for firelighting, in a land where trees are rare. Their name comes from the fact that, although they light well—birch bark being an incredible firestarter—they are also infused with the salt of the ocean, and spit, crackle, and sparkle as they burn. Loki, the great mischief maker, clearly a part of this process.
Those oil-rich bundles of bark are all that remains of the trees they once clad, washed out from rivers all the way across the Atlantic ocean, pulled north into the Arctic, then slowly spun out and swept east and south to Scotland.
As I watched those leaves slowly drift away, I was reminded of Loki and his candles, of how birch has been used for tens of thousands of years (evidence of processing the bark into tar can be found from 200000 years ago and Homo neanderthalensis), of the depth of our connection to the land and how it shapes us.
And I recorded all these thoughts in my journal.
On this day, I also scribbled several pages about my mental mapping of the area, using sources of food, such as a row of violets growing in a crack in a rock, water, different trees, watercourses, berries, and other natural phenomena as reference points. This was the way the landscape would have been mapped in the time before farming—if this is something which interests you, I can heartily recommend the book Maps and Dreams by Hugh Brody, a superb piece of work and a fine read.
There was still work to do on the heather thatching, but I decided that this would be the day when I moved my cook-fire into the shelter, considering the inaugural lighting a ceremonial event of sorts.
Cooking on an open fire is much easier than using a small, collapsible stove. I had deliberately positioned one of the oak branches of the frame above where the fire was to be situated, and hung some doubled and knotted cord from this. Using a short length of chain and a hook, I could easily vary the height of the pan in the fire. A simple, but elegant solution.
I could now also use this cord and the branch above to dry out my washcloth and microfibre towels—they would smell of campfire, but I do not find this to be a negative.
I took a photo through the open door of the shelter, the first of several. The doorway faced east, towards the rising sun, something which has been incorporated into structures for millennia. I once dug at the remarkable Bronze Age terrace of roundhouses at Cladh Hallan, on South Uist to the west of where I was that autumn, where evidence of deliberate mummification was discovered—each of these roundhouses had their doorways to the east, and who was I to do things differently?
As I went to bed that night, prepared for the following day’s resupply in Fort William, I scribbled the following entry into my journal:
There is something big in the bracken about twenty feet away from me—it sounded like a deer bedding down for the night. How typical that I have put my camera away in my pack, the first time it has not been suspended above my head…
Journal One. Sunday the 10th of October, 2010.
The Cacophony of Humankind
For the first time since leaving the city, over three weeks ago, I set an alarm for the morning of the 11th of October, 2010 and, of course, as ever, I woke before it. The train I hoped to catch to Fort William was not very early, but I thought it wise to factor in extra time for fire lighting, breakfast cooking, and the walk to the station—something I had yet to do from my new location.
The night was full of noise: the deer challenging and clashing, the Thing in the bracken behind my camp, and a female tawny owl calling over and over from downslope, her yip yip, yip, kee-wick, loud and incessant.
On the walk to the railway station, I followed a deer trail down the hill to the sea, then back up the path along the glen. I knew this route, and I had still not discovered my campsite had a backdoor of sorts. I took a lot of photos, of the dawn, of the walk, a few on the journey (it is really not possible to take photos through the window of a grubby train!), some in Fort William, and then some of the evening after I returned to my camp.
As I began my walk I found a patch of flattened grass and bracken, with massive slot marks in the soft ground, exactly where I had heard the noise. A solitary stag, bedding down for a break in the rut, gone before first light. He must have known I was there, but was either too exhausted or too full of testosterone to care.
I saw many other tracks, the valley bottom churned in places by the deer then, most excitingly, a single large cat print, substantially larger than the average domestic cat. I knew this area was known to have wild cats, the famous Highland tiger, untamed and untameable, and I was delighted to find this print—whilst simultaneously mildly irritated I could not at least attempt to follow it. In some ways, this was probably a good thing—tracking a wildcat is probably still beyond my skill level—back then, it was simply wishful thinking (yet this is, of course, how we learn, how we improve—we have to try and we have to fail, then fail better).
The weather was beautiful, with clear and sharply rich blue skies and a warm sun, yet that sun was beginning to get sleepier and a little more lazy each day, readying herself for a winter doze. Dawn was arriving progressively later each morning and the sun would set a little to the left every night, further and further southwards. The angles of shadows increased and, in the places where the sun no longer fell, chill gathered, like the air that clings inside caves or crypts. I was glad to be warmly dressed and I was glad I would soon be moving into my shelter.
My resupply was successful. I was three pennies short of the price of a return ticket and, in those days, paying by card was not possible. As it was, instead of having to buy a single, then another when I headed back, the cost almost double that of a return, the conductor let me off those three pennies, a simple kindness which stuck with me. I felt oddly emotional about this, even though it was such a small thing.
Parts of that rail journey might be recognisable to fans of the Harry Potter movies, seeing as it is where the titular hero and friends travel on their way to Hogwarts. It is stunning, yet also a little melancholy—those glens should each have villages, yet those people were cleared and sent away, whether to Glasgow, Australia, or Canada.
Packed and moved, against their wishes, to make way for sheep by the richer lairds—a topic I will no doubt return to, especially as a similar thing is currently happening in England, on Dartmoor, where a hyper-rich individual is currently trying to remove the very last place in England where people can wild camp legally. So he can release and shoot pheasants without having the commoners nearby. (He includes laying down on the heather, having a picnic, and sitting in his court case, too.) It is disgusting and, honestly, the sooner remnants of a colonial past like this are removed, the better.
Fort William was loud, it smelled of traffic and plastics, a cacophony of cars and voices constant and unsettling. Yet just a few weeks earlier, when I changed trains there, it felt like a large village to me. Perspectives change with time and experience, and time spent in the woods changes you in ways you might not always find comfortable.
My pack is huge, an 80 litre Karrimor SF rucksack which can be expanded to 130, with additional side pockets, for a total of 150 litres. I filled it with things, buying considerable quantities of staples, food to last me through weeks and weeks. I had no idea how long I would be out there—I still wanted to be in Caithness for Christmas, and I was making sure I had enough food to last me until this point, with one extra big Fort William resupply factored in before the clock change to ensure that my meals would not be bland and boring.
The sunset that evening was beautiful, with stunning colours reflected in the calm waters of the sea loch. As I stood, leaning against an oak, listening to the sounds of the evening chorus of birds and the deer roaring across the glen, I felt a sense of belonging, of deep calm, glad to be back in my small corner of woodland and hill, away from the hustle and bustle of others.
I had lived for nearly ten years in a city, prior to leaving for those hills, lochs, and woods—and yet I found coping with the sudden noise, garish sights, and horrendous scent of a comparatively small town difficult after nearly four weeks in the wilder places.
I was exhausted after carrying the weight of my supplies home, and packing and hanging the food to keep it away from the mice was an extra challenge. As I did so, I heard something moving right outside my shelter door, then a quick warning bark—not that of the deer, but a red fox, come to say hello and perhaps wonder what it could smell.
I ate well that night, frying some steak in butter and eating it wrapped in a fresh baguette, the butter drizzled over the whole. I had washed an empty glass peanut butter jar and used that to enjoy some red wine, listening to the tawny owls calling one another, sending shivers into the hearts of the local rodent population and joy into mine.
The fire was deliciously mesmeric, the flames dancing, the heat soothing, the soft crackle of seasoned oak calming. I was tempted to move into the shelter there and then, but decided to wait a wee bit longer, until I could sort out a comfortable bed.
Brief Notes, Distant Music
I snapped no photos on either the 12th of October, 2010, or the following day. I was busy with the shelter and did not need to move far after replenishing my water bags and bottles on the laborious walk back from the train, adding to the ridiculous weight.
My journal entry for this day is correspondingly small, yet it serves to document the day. Just a small note, or a single photo, will often jog my memory. I am so glad I did keep those journals, each page is a treasure chest. Here follows the entry for this day:
I’m falling behind with my journal entries. The simple reason is twofold: I’ve been rather busy just doing “stuff” and I’ve more or less moved in to my shelter—apart from sleeping. This means I have yet to find a routine or even a place to write. I will write more soon enough, have no fear.
(As an aside, I am never sure who, exactly, I am talking to when I write a journal entry—is it me, years down the line [yes], or others, probably after I am gone [yes—you are reading this now, although I am still here! Perhaps others will read the original journals too. I am definitely not one of those people who demand their journals and notebooks be burnt once they are gone. That feels akin to sacrilege to me]).
I then went on to list some brief mentions, the things I shared yesterday, such as the train conductor letting me off the 3p, the tracks in the soft earth, the fox, and my total exhaustion after carrying all my supplies back to my woodland home and hanging them safely away from hungry rodents.
The journal entry for the 12th ends with this list:
Today.
Small creature near me when sawing supports for a bench – shrew?
Bench.
Clearing floor.
Packing base of walls.
Rigging up poncho door.
Hearing music, thinking it was close by, but it was actually a small creel boat far out on the loch.
Cold, cold night.
What About You?
Have you ever felt that dislocation, of visiting a place which shouldn’t feel busy and overwhelming, but does? (I do wonder if this feeling extended to a lot of the world following Covid and the lockdowns?) Do you love to comb beaches too (something I have previously shared further thoughts on here), have you ever found any Loki’s candles, and what is the strangest thing you have found? Or do you collect other items on your walks, perhaps stones, acorns, or seeds?
Into The Forest
After mentioning and sharing a link to Susie Mawhinney’s magnificent Autumn post last week, I have decided it makes sense to share a different piece of someone else’s work with each of these letters I send. There is just so much good stuff on Substack—honestly, far too much for me to keep up with at the moment, even with my favourite writers. That, my friends, is not a terrible problem to have—to be drowning in true riches.
In this recent piece, entitled Venture Further Into The Forest, the writer Jonathan Foster steps out into the northern forest and dares to see deeply into and beyond the trees, listen to the fungi, and consider truths oft-hidden.
When I shared this elsewhere, I chose an entirely different quote to do so and, honestly, I could have picked so many others—it is so full of engaging, powerful wordcraft:
“Further and further we beat a retreat, the dog and I, from this so-called civilisation to hide amongst the wild creatures and the fungi and the singing wind, where we wait for civilisation to track us down.”
This is rich writing, a reminder of the power of words and observation and thought. It is highly, highly recommended. (And not just because his letter is called The Crow…)
Finally
To read the introduction to my autumnal 2010 adventure, click here.
To go back to Week Three, 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
Beautiful photos, writing, and life adventures Alexander. Thanks for sharing this with us.
PS I loved Jonathan’s ‘Venture further into the forest’