A Fall In Time: Week Ten

17th to the 23rd of November, 2010

Ten weeks, alone, in the woods.

It is a long time—to be alone, yes, but also a long time to spend outwith our civilisation. There are few people who do this and, I am absolutely sure, not one of them comes out of the experience the same as they entered. Being this close to, and a part of, nature does things to you. It makes you sense things in a different way, more completely. When the constant background hum of our busy lives is removed, then senses which have lain dormant somehow switch themselves on, and we integrate once more into the world in a way we have mostly forgotten.

This particular adventure was not quite over, but events would soon take a turn I had not entirely anticipated, and force me into a choice between changing my plans or risking much. The sun was beginning to set on my time in the woods.

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 tenth week of A Fall In Time.

Listening to Yourself Within the Woods

Out in the woods there is an ebb and flow to life. Sometimes, I would record everything I did, take many photographs, and immerse myself in the space I lived within. Others, I would mostly stay in my shelter, warm and cosy, making gifts, experimenting with different materials (heat treating stone, for example, or using fresher bone, alongside that which has aged and weathered), drinking tea and eating well.

At this point, I remember I began to make more and more bannock cakes around this time, after I had been ill and as the temperature dropped. That year, I didn’t have a big flat pan for making these (propped at an angle in front of the fire, rotated every so often)*, so I would usually make them and place them on flat rocks. It worked well.

Adding raisins—and more sugar than I would normally do—to my bannocks seemed to be what my body was calling for. When you are alone in wilder places, it becomes easier to listen to what your body needs. Sometimes, this can be surprising, you see a plant you know and then you really crave it, or perhaps you walk along the shoreline and get a real urge to add some seaweed to your meal later. It is wise to listen to this and wiser still to keep trying to do so when you are amongst others once more.

I know I was also listening to my body when it came to rest. Every little thing out in nature is an equation of calorie expenditure—whether to go gather fuel, water, or food, or whether to simply keep warm, sleep deeply, or even go to the toilet. Everything could be broken down into these constituent parts—how much energy am I spending? This topic is one I find fascinating. We can look at all of life like this but it is only when you are alone in the woods (or anywhere else wilder than normal) that the equation becomes more urgent. There are so many ways to tip the scales too—ensuring clothing is cleaned and correctly worn, for example, or making sure your boots are the right size, with enough room for more socks in winter (which I had not done that year, as I mentioned before).

Another big plus is airing your sleeping bag when the weather allowed—I always use a silk liner inside a bag, as it keeps it cleaner and adds extra warmth but, even so, it is important to fluff up the bag and get it out into the fresh air and sunshine. For this reason, I usually choose darker coloured bags, black being good, as they absorb the sun easier, rather than reflecting it, and the sun is an excellent cleanser.

In essence, knowing the land, knowing the nature, and knowing yourself helps the body and mind to keep working and thriving at an optimal level. If you ever get the chance to spend time out in nature like I did—immersed, rather than skimmed or dipped into—then you learn just how much we subdue or repress this side of ourselves. The wonderful thing I realised, however, is that the instincts to do this are STILL THERE, it’s just that, on the whole, we’re no longer listening.

I truly believe we can alter that, if we choose.

*The photos here are from the following year, when I returned to my little woodland home, built a proper fireplace and oven, and experienced a much warmer and much wetter time than 2010.

Loons, Decisions, and a Second Parliament of Owls

The hills around the sea loch now echo with the calls of a pair of great northern divers. It really is a fantastic, eerie and desolate sound.

Journal Two. 18th November, 2010.

The great northern diver is also known as the common loon (Gavia immer) and this pair had probably flown in from somewhere to the north and west—perhaps Iceland or maybe Greenland. They stayed as long as I was there and I suspect they return every winter.

I was still not up to peak fitness, still drained by my recent illness, but the coming days would see me venture out more, exploring, photographing and, above all, observing. There were other new birds to be seen and heard, brought in with the change in the seasons and winter was almost there.

One of the things I think have neglected to mention up to now is that, when I moved into the area which was to become my permanent shelter, I deliberately collected firewood from outside a radius which could be reached within ten minutes walking. This made gathering fuel labour-intensive and considerably harder than it could have been, but I was grateful for my foresight.

The reason I did this was for the eventuality of the weather being particularly bad, meaning I could gather from near the shelter in such conditions if needed. It seemed sensible to do so as I knew I would have more energy nearer the beginning of my woodland stay than towards the end, and this turned out to be a very wise precaution.

Having been so ill meant it was days and days before I could carry the weight of logs I had done beforehand and, instead, I selected local pieces of seasoned timber, laboriously pulling and dragging then to my home. Even with this, I still left a lot of firewood nearby, simply because there was more than enough.

At this point, I made the decision to stay out in the woods until at least December. If I made it until the seventh, that would mark the point I had been out there for twelve weeks. This seemed like a good target. If I made it to thirteen weeks, that would be a quarter of a year spent alone in the woods. Not many people approach that length of time alone in nature.

I was, however, excited about spending Christmas with my parents and all but one of my five sisters. I didn’t want to leave my woodland haven prematurely, however.

I kept adding to my fuel pile, building it up for the coming weeks. Another decision I had made was that I would not make the hike to the nearest village again, instead ensuring my supplies lasted as long as I remained out there, although I would have to supplement these with wild food to have enough to eat, which meant using the shore and sea, as much of the land-based food was becoming scarce or vanishing entirely.

On this day, my journal tells me I made a stew of sorts, adding cheese-filled dumplings and making far too much for one meal.

I also mention that I was finding the candles and makeshift lanterns gave a superb light in the evenings, comforting and warming, lasting a long time*. When the candles burnt down too small, I used the stubs for helping with fire lighting in the morning, each cut into three or four small rounds. Nothing, out in nature, should be wasted, and all things should go towards an avoidance of wasted effort and calories.

My journal also records that I had another visitation by the parliament of owls (see my note from the 9th of November, linked below) but, this time, it did not feel at all sinister or unnerving. I listened for over half an hour, as these night hunters chatted amongst themselves, rasping and coughing, hooting and shrieking, before they departed, to wreak havoc on the local rodent population or pluck the small birds from their roosts.

I felt truly blessed to be out there, to be healing well, and to be able to share of myself with the land itself, bring back the stories I witnessed and share them in turn with friends, family, and those reading my occasional blog posts.

Sharing this today, I feel that blessing still and, I expect, I will continue to do so, as long as I live.

*The photo here is from the following year, but using the same pattern of lantern. You can also perhaps make out some of the items I collected to repurpose and use, whether fish crates or driftwood. To the right, you can see the edge of a set of shelves I made from a fish box, sawn in half and nailed together, using nails pulled from wood found on the beach. Nothing should be wasted.

The Light Which Gets In Through the Cracks

A day of details. A day of noticing the details. The 19th of November, 2010, was one full of the little components of the natural world all around me, each jumping out in the light and crying, ‘Photograph me!’. And so I did.

Here, I’m sharing a small selection of the many photos I took on this day.

There were all manner of those details: leaves against the sky, leaves against each other, focal points, small twigs of birch, leaves which ended up flattened in the pages of my journal, tracery of branches, an airy cathedral above, a hole in a tree, perfect for leaving secret messages, gnarled bark and emerald moss, honeysuckle tendrils, lichens, liverworts, ferns, mosses and others, on and around the cracks and dark places of the rocks, the damp spots and the seeps, the place I gathered my water, the favourite tree of the treecreeper, veins of quartz, lessons in camouflage, deer leg bones, heat treated rock, oak logs burning merrily, lens flares, shades of green which could never be truly captured by a camera—even the air smelled green at times—low sun highlighting, low sun shadowing, Swiss-cheesed fallen trees, crevice and crack, toppled oaks and dislodged boulders, long tailed tit (Aegithalos caudatus) not hanging around, corona around the moon from within my shelter, and the bright bright moonlight on the oaks, silvery skeins, ethereal, perfect for poaching.

All in all, I should probably let the photographs do the talking.

My journal from this day also records that I was deeply considering the mixing of photographic poetry with written poetry, wondering how to take these things forward—a thought I have yet to actually realise, fourteen years later. Perhaps I should dust off some old poems and find a use or home for them, release them into the woods?

Short Days and Long Walks

The 20th of November, 2010, was another day of photographing the details, the vast mosaic of life all around.

I was feeling strong again, well enough to walk a considerable distance, up hill and down, and up, down, and up once more. I went to parts of the woodland I had yet to explore, discovering signs of ancient habitation, places where the deer slept and watered, the exposed swirls of frost-shattered metamorphic rock, and so much more.

I photographed the coal tit (Periparus ater), the alder (Alnus glutinosa), a pool where two deer trails crossed, water droplets from melted frost, the flow and curve of the fallen tree roots, and my rather large cup of tea.

The angle of sunlight was low all day now, with a month left until the solstice. Sometimes the sky was steel and the water gunmetal, sometimes a ray would turn all into contrast and brilliance, bounce from the snow on the tops of the hills.

Sea carved rocks caught my eye, wind sculpted oak trees, traces of otters, and an old rusted ship’s boiler on the foreshore.

I snapped one photo which reminded me of my mind’s eye vision of Middle Earth, the deer trail winding between two big rocks, oaks creating a tunnelled canopy above.

I took a photograph of my shelter as I returned, again marvelling at how it disappeared into the land.

It was a good day to be alive and breathing in the cold air without it hurting, stepping slowly and lightly through the land. Not across it, but through and within, listening and scenting the wind, every foot carefully placed, considered, soundtracked by the large mixed flocks of winter tits, or the crack of the questing raven.

I felt a deep relief to have come out the other side of my illness, to be able to experience the short day as any other animal on those hillsides, knowing I had a warm and cosy nest to return to as the dusk set in and the long night enveloped me within an increasingly wintry embrace.

The Harsh Cry of the Heron*

The 21st of November, 2010, was another beautiful, rain free day. Thin, wispy clouds would appear, then blow apart, dissipating quickly and leaving the sky blue and clear once more.

It was starting to feel cold, not cool, but cold. Even in the middle of the day, the air had bite, and I suspected more—and harder—frosts were on the way.

The temperature in Scotland is a strange thing. I’ve spoken to someone from Saskatchewan, who said they felt -8°c (18F) in the Scottish Highlands felt colder to them than -30°c (-22F) in their homeland. This is due to the constant humidity, the ground holding and slowly releasing moisture, even during the coldest of snaps, making dry cold very rare in Scotland.

It was not yet that cold, but I knew it would drop further soon. The little birds were increasingly frantic, flitting around and gathering as much food as they could, and this is usually a good indicator of a change in the weather ahead.

On this day, I continued walking and photographing the woodland around me, looking at the details and wider views, experimenting with black and white shots to capture the increasing stark feel of the oaken skeletons around me, their blanket of leaves now piled here and there in deep drifts.

I took photographs of the wonder of the bark of holly (Ilex aquifolium) trees, of the differences in colour I was seeing everywhere, of a great tit (Parus major), both on a trunk and as it flew off, the captured movement mirroring the winged lichen on the tree it had departed.

I watched two shags in the loch below me and waited for the perfect moment for them to neatly line up and turn into a version of Nessie, the Loch Ness monster. As it happens, there is apparently a monster not too far to the north of where I was, in Loch Morar, the deepest body of fresh water in the UK. She’s called Morag.

I saw the heron and captured an image, just before it launched into the air, shrieking in that bone-chilling fashion they possess. A hooded crow sat on a branch, watching the foreshore.

Everywhere I looked the emerald richness of the moss and the deep verdancy of ivy seemed to leap out and demand a photograph. Likewise with more photos of water droplets on fallen oak leaves.

That day, I gathered some leaves and tucked them in my first journal. I have some still, although I have also used them to write on, a special and very limited edition paper of sorts, even sending one along with a letter for publication in a literary journal, with the design for my shelter carefully inked on the dry surface.

I was settled, I felt at home. I knew many of the secret paths, yet still kept finding others, such as the treacherous and narrow winding way down the cliff below my home, the way the deer would take when they wished to avoid me. I tried it, once, and decided it was best left to them.

The early morning, just after dawn, was the best time to see and photograph the gossamer pendants and trails of the spiders’ handiwork, catching low, angled sun, and fluttering this way, and that. They felt secret, special, an ultrathin strand of light decorating a branch for a small time, before snapping free and heading off who knew where.

I continued with my Christmas presents, kept gathering fuel, food, and water, and generally felt a sense of calm and contentment I had not felt in many a year. I was approaching ten weeks out in the woods and, at that point, I felt I could easily go another ten weeks.

*I absolutely stole this title from Lian Hearn.

Awash With Gold and Ruby

On the 22nd of November, 2010, the clouds started to gather, dark and thick and dusty with the potential for snow. The sun kept pushing through, stubbornly refusing to give in and the resulting light was ever-changing and worthy of another long walk with the camera.

I crossed the tracks of a large deer, very fresh, and I decided to follow them. I tracked it for over a kilometre (half a mile) as it wandered slowly across the hillside, pausing here to eat, leaving still-warm droppings there, twisting to look behind at one point, the action caught in the ground itself.

My journal records that I caught up to it, but the wind swirled and carried my scent just before I could get my camera out from inside my clothing, where I was ensuring the batteries stayed warm and viable. He was a big stag—the largest I had seen since I had arrived in these woods, so dark in colour as to appear almost black, antlers broad and many-tined. He ran off at full tilt, bounding and leaping and, although I tried to cut him off by guessing his route and taking a short cut across the top of the hill, I did not see him again.

Tracking is addictive and I had to tear myself away once I picked up his sign again, instead heading back to my shelter before the sun fell and the temperature dropped even more.

On my walk, I also discovered a small pile of rocks from an area of land which had once been cleared for cultivation, then the base of a set of walls from an ancient building, long taken back by the woods. Judging by the age of the tree growing beside them, they were certainly pre-clearance, and likely to have been a home when Charles Edward Stuart walked these hills.

I often considered this, the history the trees could have whispered, the tales of the raising of banner and the arrival of a prince, or of chests of gold, carried here, hidden there.

I found where a large rock had been cracked and fallen, possibly struck by lightning, but more likely the result of frost damage. Those hills were full of such scars, the smallest acorn capable of pushing apart the mightiest rocks, or a tiny trickle of water forcing cracks into the largest of boulders.

There are photographs of my favourite bog on the hills, where I had tried to see how deep it was, wiggling my staff into the depths, only to find no bottom the more I wiggled. These places need to be treated with respect and I could not help but wonder, not for the first time, what would happen if my body ever sank within the black depths, whether I would emerge, Tollund or Lindow man-like, many years in the future.

My journal was filling rapidly, with a scant handful of pages left before I would be forced to move on to another book. After my recovery from illness, I found a surge in my positive outlook for the future, recording many pages of ideas and thoughts, alongside recipes for different steamed desserts cooked over a fire, dreams, memories, and potential dates for leaving my woodland home, when I could get a lift to my family’s home in Caithness.

As the sun set, just as I was getting home, everything was a blaze of red and gold and light good enough to inhale, to eat through the eyes. Familiar rocks and trees and plants took on new colours and meaning, and I kept photographing these. I was frustrated at times, my camera making a valiant attempt to pick up the correct colours, but somehow still failing to satisfy the reality.

It was the most marvellous sunset—I had seen many of them, and many dawns, yet I never grew weary of the spectacle. Each was different, each special in its own way.

This is the way of nature and the natural world—we should never tire of it, always able to consider the same scene and find something new, something golden and unique. On the west coast of Scotland, this is not hard.

Banking for the Future

A special end to another special day.

Journal Two. 23rd of November, 2010.

Dawn was colder than I had yet experienced, but without a hard frost. The chill seemed to be in the air, hovering, awaiting orders to descend and decorate all with rime, harden with ice.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to fill my waterbags from the small pool I had cleared. There had been no rain for days and the water level was dropping lower and lower, as I competed with the deer and other animals for the fresh water. I knew, if this continued, that I would have to revert to my previous, much longer walk, down into the glen and the burn below.

The riot of colour from just a short time ago was gone, the land mostly shades of brown and grey, colour leached and leaves pulled around it like a blanket, waiting for the snow—and snow felt close on this day. The skies were again intermittently purple, brown, leaden and full of the promise of flakes soon to fall, then they would clear, leaving azure and cerulean shades above and below, reflected in the still waters.

I walked, again, covering long distances as I followed deer trail and track, exploring cracks and crevices in the shattered rocks, studying where there was still sign of the battles of the stags, churned moss and soil, muddy wallows, thrashed and frayed branches and long, and gouged marks, where one had pushed the other.

At one point on my walk I was sitting near the top of one of the hills, my back to an oak, when an RAF Tornado flew below me. I could have thrown a stone and hit him, he was so close. He did not see me. The birds did not like the screaming of the jet engines and fell silent for many minutes after he had passed, before returning to their frantic feeding.

The pilot returned later when I was sitting in my shelter drinking tea, but he did not stop for a cuppa.

Every holly bush and rowan seemed laden with berries, as though they knew something about the harshness of the coming winter. The holly was splendid, glowing with scarlet and deep, rich, emerald and cadmium green leaves. Her time in the shadows, where she spends all summer, was at an end, her glory upon her. The birds fed well.

I returned to where I had found the remains of the ancient building, the ground opening up her secrets with the passing of the bracken, the shadows from the low sun enabling more to be seen. Vivid colours would fade when the sun hid its face once more, contrast gone, drained, dark, dank and dull.

As I paused and studied moss, rocks, branch and track, the local buzzards circled above me, obviously hopeful I must soon, surely, expire and present a decent feeding opportunity.

I photographed a dead moth in my favourite bog and, looking around, I realised there were other dead things here, the dark still waters seemingly gathering the dead to their cold embrace.

Returning to my shelter was always a wonderful thing, rearranging oak logs and breathing fresh life into the fire, the space within, despite the hole in the roof, warm and cosy.

My journal from this date was extensive, again, with notes including a list of things I had been thinking about, such as:

• Singing the Littlest Hobo theme under my breath whilst walking

• Making a flute from deer leg bones

• What the past months meant to me; how I could always return to those woods if times were tough, whether literally/physically or in my mind

• Finally coming to terms with certain relationships, and their ends, a period of deep acceptance

• How I felt set for the future, physically and, especially, mentally, with all the right pieces of the puzzle to progress and actually live life on my own terms

There are other points on this list, each demonstrating just how much thinking I was doing. Remove the chatter of modern life, and you have little choice but to think. I ended the list with the words ‘Truly, truly, exciting times.’

The sunset was another stunning display, shades of pink reflected in the sea loch. As I watched, the temperature grew colder and colder and I knew it would freeze hard that night.

On nights like this, sound travels far. The haunting call of the loons special, the hum of distant cars, more irritating. The falling of the leaves meant much more sound reached my ears, and it was not always a good thing.

As the temperature plunged, it felt good to be able to stand outside looking at the stars, then retreating into the warmth for a time, before repeating. The moon that night rose suddenly, with a silvery intensity reflected on water and oak both. I felt lucky to have witnessed her arrival, so swift the light changed.

It was one more wonder in a series of wonders, another moment engraved into my memory. I really was banking for the future, as that old man—on the last train I had travelled to this place—had said, ten weeks earlier, to the day.

What About You?

Do you look forward to the first frost, the first snow? Or do you dread the winter darkness? Do you take time to look at things closely, admiring all those incredible details of nature? Is there a song which you associate with a period of your life—after it got trapped there, somehow?

My Journey With A Camera

This week, you may have noticed, I crossposted an essay from Lynn Fraser of My Journey With A Camera, all about a walk around a part of the coast of the Black Isle, in Scotland and, especially, some of the hidden secrets discovered in caves along that route. This is a hugely informative and entertaining read, and I loved it (Lynn is excellent at this, I really loved this post from her, about The Rebellious Women of Coigach, a super read and powerful story). The post I crossposted, Rosemarkie Man, is a part of my occasional series of work from other creative souls here on Substack, more on which can be found here (and, if you are interested in this, do let me know! I’d love to share more along these lines).

As the title of Lynn’s letter suggests, a very large part of her work is with photographic images, and she excels at this, weaving her images in amongst her words, creating a story from them both. Here’s the link to how Lynn describes her own letter, and to give you a flavour of the stunning work she shares, I really suggest you also have a look at this piece, featuring the beauty of autumnal Scotland:

Autumn Colours

Or have a look at this piece, which really is a superb showcase for the natural wonders of Yellowstone:

Yellowstone National Park

So far, apart from my sister

Lydia Crow

, Lynn is the only other Substack writer I’ve met in person. Lydia actually also now lives on the Black Isle, so it made a lot of sense to meet up when I was over there this summer. I can honestly say that it felt like meeting up with an old friend and, next time I’m visiting Scotland, I’ll certainly be saying hello again.

Substack really is a wonderful place to meet interesting people, and the community here feels much stronger and more engaged than anywhere else I have recently frequented on the internet. With no adverts, either! In many ways, and I know I am not alone in feeling this, it reminds me more of the early days of blogging, before corporations and advertising/sell sell sell broke that magic.

Finally

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

To go back to Week Nine, 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 (as it has this week! I’m getting there, though!).

Many thanks for reading,

Alex