A Fall In Time: Week Two

22nd to the 28th of September, 2010

Sep 28, 2024

Hello, it’s lovely to have you here.

If you have no idea what this message is about, or why you are receiving it, head to this introductory piece or the collated entries for Week One of A Fall In Time. As the weeks turn to months, I shall keep an updated navigation section in the introductory post and deliberately keep this introduction short, so you can get straight into the adventure. Without further ado, here’s the second week of A Fall in Time.

Life’s Rich Sustenance

The morning of the 22nd of September, 2010 dawned wet and grey, with the cloud so low that, even when rain was not actually falling, everything was still soaked. These days are common in Scotland, days when the world seems made of water, even the air we breathe is damp, all is glistening, all is be-pearled with life’s rich sustenance.

When I look at how the world has changed since this adventure, one thing I very quickly realise is that my attitude to water has altered, utterly. No longer do I take it for granted, no longer do I expect it. Scotland is certainly relatively better placed for the climate crisis than some other nations, but there will be changes still. Water is life, there is no other way to look at it, and we would do well to remember this, and nurture and protect those places where it flows and gathers.

In a gap in the rain, I walked to the rocky beach. I had begun to map it in my head, using this rock as a marker, that skerry for alignment. I had found what looked like either a very, very old fish trap, or perhaps an ancient, small, harbour. Either way, a collection of rocks and boulders mostly surrounded a level area free of obstruction. I began to consider whether to use this as a food source—if I were to block the opening with a net then fish could get in at high tide to feed, but would not be able to escape as the tide dropped. In the end, I decided against this, I had my creels and I had my fishing rod. I did not need to catch that many fish.

As it was, on that walk I found a dead fish, washed in by the exceptional equinoctial tide, much higher than normal. At that time, I did not know what species it was, I was only glad of its presence, as it meant I could use it as bait in one of my folding creels, to try and catch some crabs. Later, much later, I was to discover it was a trigger fish, probably a grey trigger fish (Balistes capriscus), a species normally associated with the tropics and sub-tropics, and across the Atlantic. In recent years, they have been found increasingly often in the British Isles, suggesting climate change is extending the range.

At the time, I just placed it and a few rocks in my creel, then put this in a crevice, tying it to a long piece of paracord attached to a tree on the shore.

The weather and the gloomy light dictated much of what I did this day. My journal records nothing of events, but does have a pair of unfinished poems, both of which revolved around Scotland’s connection to the rain.

And then, late in the evening, the sun appeared, as if by magic. The grey lifted and the light was stunning.

After heavy, consistent rain, Scotland can be otherworldly when the clouds clear. I love it when I am above them, or when it is still pouring it down in one specific spot a stone’s throw away, but dry where I am.

The rain in Scotland has to be experienced to be believed.

At times it can rain for days, for weeks. And then it clears and everything is cast in a light that makes the rain eminently worth every drop, every preceding day of close, low, and gloomy grey. This was such a moment—without that water, the light would not have been so ethereal, so utterly, utterly beautiful.

Rewards, Renewals, and Lives

This is the first of two posts today; it seemed sensible to split this into two Notes.

I’m old enough to realise that, in wilder places, accidents happen. Every year, people are injured or worse whilst walking, climbing, or out on the water. Being alone in the woods carries a responsibility to those who care about you—you had best be careful, you had best know what to do in an emergency, and you had best have a plan in place if there is one.

Once, long ago, myself and a friend played a very small part in the rescue of a stranger, who had fallen from a cliff. All we did was cycle to raise the alarm, to call for aid; this was in the days when mobile or cellular phones were not really a thing. We waited until a local doctor arrived and then took him to the scene. I didn’t go and look because, as I mentioned recently, I was ridiculously squeamish in those days.

The man had been messing around on the rockface, not that high up, when he had slipped and landed, on one leg, on rocks below. It was not, by all accounts, a pretty sight. The doctor had already called in further aid before even arriving on the scene—to get someone safely from the foot of an Orcadian cliff to anywhere else meant calling in air support.

In a surprisingly small amount of time an RAF Sea King helicopter arrived and proceeded to be amazing. The pilot had to drop the stretcher a ridiculously short distance from the man, as they simply could not move him far, which meant getting the blades to within an arm span of the cliff itself. That level of skill has stuck with me ever since—to this day, despite seeing many lifeboat launches and helicopter searches, I still get a sick feeling when I witness one.

For three days the volunteers of the RNLI lifeboats searched the coast. The helicopter here, then there. I was to later discover they were searching for an overdue yacht, which was discovered, empty, not very far from where I was camped. Sadly, they found the yachtsman’s body a week later. Adventure claims lives, but it also rewards and renews them.

It is a difficult balance, but one always worth considering.

Brushstrokes on a Masterpiece

On this day, the 23rd of September 2010, I wrote a short blog post, photographed it, and climbed the hill to send it. It was there I saw the helicopter and watched the arrival and search by the RNLI.

That morning, I had laid awake in my hammock, tucked into silk sleeping bag liner, the down of the bag itself so invitingly toasty as to make getting up a challenge. I watched, as the light crept across the glen, listening to something banging shellfish against rocks, hidden from view. Ravens patrolled the shoreline, a gull joining them as cormorants fished offshore.

By this point, nine nights out in the woods, I had a new morning ritual. I would call the little birds of the forest, imitating their cries and they would come to see what the fuss was. We would exchange a few pleasantries before they would abandon their clearly-not-feathered friend and head off, en masse, into the trees, in their ceaseless quest for insects.

Shortly after, I heard a hammering behind me. Then a flash of scarlet feather as a great spotted woodpecker (Dendrocopos major) shot past, proceeding to spiral around a branch of oak, seeking grubs. Getting a photo proved difficult. Later, when I decided to build a shelter, I would have the woodpecker visit and sit on the oak above, using the smoke from my fire to help rid itself of parasites, or perhaps just enjoying the warmth. I would sometimes tap-tap-tap on a tree and it would arrive, but that is getting ahead of myself in the story.

On this day, I learnt what had been pulling patches of oak bark from the trees—a blue tit (Cyanistes caeruleus), which I caught in the act of tearing chunks loose to look for spiders or other tasty morsels. I also learnt just how difficult it was to get a decent bird photo with the camera I had.

All the birds out in those woods seemed unafraid of man—I suspect they saw so few people that we humans were simply curiosities, not associated with any form of danger, any more than the red deer.

I was slowly beginning to piece together more of the jigsaw of life out there, slowly beginning to be accepted as a part of a whole, and I felt attached to every part of this, whether the birds or the deer, the oak or the heather, each was a brushstroke on a masterpiece.

The woodpecker returned, sounding for all the world like someone knocking feverishly on a door and, this time, I at least managed to get something of a photo.

The blog post I sent that day ends with these lines: “Do I miss work? What do you think?”

Of Berries, Warmth, Custard, and Thoughts

The 24th of September 2010 was a quiet, glorious day.

I collected blackberries, water, driftwood. I walked through the woods and along the shore, but not far. Instead, I was content to sit on this rock, then that, then another, admiring the colours and contours of the land, the sun warm on my face and the sky blue overhead.

I found there was enough sun to help fully charge my mobile phone, using the small solar panel I carried. The technology in those days, for the average outdoorsperson, was still in its infancy, and my little panel needed excellent conditions to work.

There were enough blackberries to make a decent dessert, heating them with a little extra sugar, then using some of the custard powder and milk powder I carried to make a custard to go with them. Powdered food sources are so very useful when you are taking the time to get to know an area out in nature. They are light, eminently packable, but a little goes a long way.

Above all on that day, I sat and I thought. I tried to picture myself packing up and walking on, north, through villages and along the shore, across bog and mountain and glen. I was increasingly beginning to consider an alternative, something more gentle in some ways, with far fewer other humans and a depth of nature far beyond that normally accompanying a stay in the woods.

There was further thinking to be done—if I stayed in one place, I would have to reconsider where. I would have to work out if I thought a hammock and tarp were enough for a long-term shelter, especially once the temperature dropped to freezing and below, a moment which I knew would not be too far in my future. Would there be enough firewood, without upsetting or destroying the ecological balance? What about food sources, both with potential resupply and wild food? What were my options?

I kept thinking.

Regeneration

“It is cold this morning; cold enough to put my gloves on and keep hat and hood on and up. I am really glad I have started to keep this diary, journal, notebook; call it what you will. I think because I have no mobile signal, and can’t text/tweet so much, I have this urge to write, and will endeavour to continue to do so – for as long as possible.”

Journal One, 25th September, 2010

On this day I climbed higher to find signal and was rewarded with wonderful views, trying to take a photo of the sea eagle who swept past me, and failing. Then I descended to check on my creel, to see if I had caught anything for dinner. I had—and made crab cakes, which were absolutely delicious, but took a lot of preparation.

These photos seem to link the elements of air, up high on the hillside, earth, passing through the forest, full of toppled giants and the possibility of interesting shadow portraits, and water, with the life of the rockpools and tidal areas. I could even add fire to this list, cooking as I did over flames.

For me, this whole adventure linked all the elements, it linked so many states of being, under and through various weathers. In 2010, winter arrived early, and I was out there in the woods on the coast for late summer, all of fall, and into early winter, able to see incredibly complex micro seasons develop, then move aside for another.

Above all, I began to feel my spirit regenerating, after years of doing what I was told, of doing what I thought was required of me, what was ‘normal’, rather than something utterly different.

Something natural.

Whisper It, The Roaring Approaches

There are not as many photos from September the 26th, 2010. I spent most of it doing those things that always need doing, no matter where you are.

I washed my clothes, I washed myself. I sharpened blades, washed and sterilised cooking equipment, aired my sleeping bag and liner, collected more firewood and processed it to enable myself to cook and purify my water, beginning to seriously consider how wonderful a normal fire, rather than a small folding stove, would be. I filled my waterbags, gathered mussels, limpets and seaweeds to eat, hiked up the hill again to check my phone, and then I cooked. After eating, I filled pages of my notebook, my journal beginning to become more full, more detailed: fewer simple notes and scribbles, but longer, more complete paragraphs.

Reading through my journal from this day shows just how much time I used to observe the natural. Whether the tiniest beetle, brown shrew and a black, or the mighty sea eagle, the tall, resolute oak, or the blooming heather, I would watch and study and learn, recording, and thinking.

The colder nights were beginning to remove the menace of the resident midge population. I was glad of this, as I was glad of ten days growth of beard, keeping my face warmer in those cooler temperatures.

“There were tracks of a deer along the trail to the burn—it must have passed in the night, less than fifteen yards* from where I slept. They were big too—my guess is a lone stag, waiting until he can claim his harem.” Journal One

The deer were beginning to ready themselves for the rut, for what in Scotland we call the Roaring—and they didn’t seem to care I was there.

I was moving at the pace of nature, an integration which is a ongoing theme in much of my work, the slowing from the rush, the bustle and hustle of artificial life, the step back to something clearer, something more considered, something perhaps less like civilisation (whatever that means), but more fulfilling.

This is a theme which is also crucial to my fiction, whether fantasy, or otherwise—something some of you may already have noticed.

“Kees did not want to stay for the festival. It was the time of the year where she itched to leave behind the Talking Races, head into deeply-wooded hills, hunt and gather, explore ancient ruins, make a sort-of-living…
…Every year was the same; the longer she stayed in the cities, the more she longed for the wild; the longer she stayed in the wild, the more she longed for company.”
Only One Death (available for free here, just head to the Fiction tab on my Substack homepage for the link).

As I was now moving at nature’s pace, the idea of a relative rush around the coast of Scotland—my original plan—had almost vanished entirely. I had begun to formulate a different idea…

*13.72 metres—in those days I was a little more Imperial, these days more metric.

More to Life

September the 27th, 2010 was a dull and wet day, following a promising start.

After discovering my supplies had again been raided, I decided to use this day to hike the 20km (12 miles) round trip to the nearest tiny shop. The wood mouse was persistent, managing to climb the line where I hung my food and chew its way into the bag, again. After this, I began to hang my food high in a tree, much like one would in bear country.

There was another reason for the resupply.

After all my thinking over the previous few days, I had made up my mind to find a place to stay in the woods, for as long as possible.

It had to be just right, Goldilocks style, hidden from any passing hikers, who would use the faint trail through the glen, then along the coast.* It had to be sheltered from the wind, which could grow strong enough to rip apart giant oak trunks, it had to be away from a hollow (places where the cold sinks and the rain can pool) and, ideally, it had to be close to a good view and a good source of water.

Fuel could be gathered from a wider area, so as to reduce any ecological damage. Similarly with shelter-building materials. Once the shelter was complete, I would be able to take my hammock and tarp and go for extended walks, should I wish, leaving most of my supplies and some of my gear in the shelter.

I wanted to take my time and find just the right spot, so the resupply made sense—it would give me breathing space to find my home, and time to begin to build a shelter. Once construction was at a certain point, instead of hiking to the tiny village, I would walk to the railway station and head to the larger town of Fort William, where I would be able to buy much more, with wider variety, for less money. Fill my pack with staples, with foods which would keep, then I would be set for a longer time.

Going back to civilisation, even somewhere as small as the tiny village I visited, felt strange, seeing people to talk to a novelty. I had now been out in the woods for thirteen nights, almost the longest I had ever stayed outdoors, and I was feeling less a part of the normal, human world with every passing day. Even there, everything felt artificially busy, as though we made ourselves move and talk much quicker than we needed to.

I found myself wanting to point out the reflected beauty of the light on the ocean, the buzzard wheeling overhead, a wren disappearing into a wall, then I realised these were things we no longer share unless we already know each other. It was a strange thought and a stranger sensation—stopping myself from sharing in joy.

The walk also meant I had much better mobile phone signal and along with some supplies I picked up several messages which had been left for me, which leant a curious sense of melancholy to the resupply trip.

Stepping away from the city, from my job and all the people I knew was something I needed to do. I had to rediscover who I was, why I was who I am, and how to be me. These are questions I am still seeking answers to—they remain the same, but the answers change over time.

At that time, September 2010, I was leaving behind a complicated relationship, one which had been equally passionate, revitalising, and heart-breaking. We both needed space, needed to think about our direction, what we were to accept about ourselves and each other. Throughout all those months alone in the woods, I thought of her, hoped our paths would perhaps merge, select a route towards a future, together.

I never saw her again.

I missed my friends, but there was nowhere I would rather be. I needed to be alone.

One of those friends had sent a message, talking about her job and life in the city. She was unhappy and signed off with this:

‘There must be more to life than this?’

I thought about that message that evening, with bats flitting around the gorge and tawny owls calling nearby; I was laid in my hammock, full, warm, and content that I had made the right decision to try and find a place to call a home for a time and, in that moment, I knew that yes, there was. There is more to life.

And I was ensuring I experienced it as fully as I could.

*As it happens, by the time I left, there had been just three people walking this trail in all that time—and two of those were together. I heard the pair talking long before I saw them, and even up on a higher ridge, I could smell them, that unnatural scent of the human, deodorant and washing detergent strong. There’s no wonder some people never witness the joys of nature. I neither heard nor scented the lone walker, so I suspect they (I think likely he, judging by the size of the boot prints left behind) knew better than to make excessive noise or advertise their presence so readily.

(Note the plastic purple tray on the beach in the photo, lost from a boat—over the weeks I was living there, I gathered and repurposed much of this flotsam and jetsam, making shelves and other furniture, for example.)

Change is Coming

I took no photographs on this day in 2010. Instead, my journal records the fact I decided to stay in my current camp for a while longer. The wind was gathering pace and I could smell rain coming from somewhere out in the Atlantic.

September the 28th felt significant in several ways. I had now been sleeping out in my hammock for two weeks, equalling the longest time I had previously spent out in wilder places, but I felt like I was just getting started.

I was glad I had almost shelved the idea of walking the length of the west and north coasts of Scotland. I felt a sense of calm the more I thought about this, knowing I had made the right decision.

I thought a lot about why I was out there, what I hoped to achieve, whether with the work I needed to do on my mental and emotional state, or the physical skills I could practice and learn. These were big questions with long answers, something my journal began to record with regularity, page after page flowing with thought and idea. This was the point when I began to look at the future in a different way, try and decide what path to take. I mention going abroad, seeing new-to-me places here, for the first time in those journals—it was to take me another seven years until I finally left Scotland in 2017; I’ve not lived in an English-speaking country since.

That afternoon, the wind dropped enough to allow me to scout out the woods to the west, trying to find a spot which spoke to me, perhaps a small cave or rock shelter I could modify and turn into a home, but I found nothing which felt as comfortable as I wanted, nothing as hidden as I desired. West did not feel right.

As I walked back to my camp, I wondered about the spur of higher land to the east of the burn where I gathered my water, and decided that I would scout that area the following day, if the rain was not as heavy as I feared it might be. I was unsure how to access the ridge—it was a mass of crags and thick tussocks with boggy hollows, perfect for catching and breaking a leg—but I was determined to find a way.

What about you?

What is the longest period of time you have allowed yourself out in nature, alone? How did it make you feel? Is there a place in the woods, or hills, or perhaps by the coast that you keep returning to, whether physically, or in your mind, strong memory transporting you, linking you to place and time and self?