Un Frère In Time
A Fall In Time: Recollections
I recently shared the final part of A Fall In Time with those of you who are subscribed to that section; this was the day-by-day and week-by-week communion with nature I was lucky enough to experience back in 2010—there shall be more to come on A Fall In Time, next year.
If you are new, or have no idea what I am talking about, essentially I left my job, my friends and family, and headed out into the woods. The introduction page, here, tells you more and also includes a linked list of the contents of this adventure.
Today, I am delighted to share this piece, crafted by my sister, Lydia Crow, who was also the key element of my remote support team back in 2010 (actually, she pretty much was the support team!), along with being the editor of the original blog posts I shared with the world about that time (being my editor is a role she excels at, not afraid to disagree or point out where something is either lacking or is over-embellished).
I shared this last year but, as it now has a new voiceover from Lydia herself, I thought it worth sharing with all of you again. Also, I like it.
When Lyd originally said she would write this piece, I did not know what to expect, but I did know it would be worth reading. And I was right.
Un Frère In Time
It’s strange thinking back to the people we were over fourteen years ago, when Alex first told me about his idea to head off to spend some time in nature on his own on the west coast of Scotland. I can’t remember the details of all the conversations now, but I do know that I thought it was a great idea from the very beginning. Alex needed to make a change, to do something different. It might not be obvious from Alex’s updates how much of a change this was from his way of life before. He was living in Sheffield, with a broad circle of friends and (occasionally rotating) housemates, and had a conventionally active social life. The August before Alex left, we’d been to the Fringe in Edinburgh and seen several shows, including Smoke and Mirrors, featuring iOTA, in the Spiegeltent. Life wasn’t boring, but I could also tell it was missing something for Alex. A key piece of the jigsaw.
I mention this, because I think it is important.
We all have these times in our lives when we know we need to make a change. It might seem superficially small, it might include physically walking away from civilisation (or “civilisation”) for a few months—but we know deep inside that it represents an important turning point, after which we’ll never quite be the same. The decision, once made, is accompanied by an increasing sense of urgency, an all-encompassing clarity, that drives us on. And, though we often try to explain the significance of such events, we will inevitably fall short, because it is our turning point, nobody else’s.
Yet, by bringing everyone into his personal story in the way in which he has done, Alex has managed to at least scratch the surface of explaining this significance. It’s not that people can or will—or even should—have the same experiences, it is that we should all be encouraged to consider what it is that might act as that turning point for us, should we need one.
The weeks running up to Alex’s departure were full of planning. For a start, Alex needed somewhere to store all his belongings, so they were delivered to my house. It was quite amusing going through some of them—a desire for minimalism doesn’t run in our family. His worldly possessions ranged from items from our childhood (including some of Alex’s early hand-drawn maps, which called for a daft photo-op), to glass scientific instruments, to books. Books, books, books. My role as Custodian of Arcane Knowledge had officially begun (and continues to this day, as what will eventually be my dining room is still full of Alex’s boxes).
As is evident from Alex’s writing, we kept in touch via mobile regularly, usually messages rather than calls. I had set up a literary website the year before, and Alex was one of the regular contributors. Writing a series under the name “Vague Wanderings”, Alex shared his experiences throughout his time on the west coast. There were several people following along—friends, family, and others we didn’t know. Alex also shared other, separate updates under the title “Vague Preoccupations”, but these (along with nearly all other content) has long since been archived on the site. I don’t have access to the messages we sent during that time (though they’re possibly on an old hard drive somewhere), but I can see when Alex switched to emailing me the images of his handwritten Moleskine notebooks with his next post (as it took much longer to send picture messages than emails). I would transcribe these posts, then message back to check any words I couldn’t quite read. Several hundred miles away, Alex would carry his notebook with him to where he could get signal to check and answer my queries the next day or so.
I have the emails back and forth when I confirmed with Alex which specific things he needed me to order to have sent out, poste restante. A bow saw, planisphere, memory card, silk socks, amongst other things. There are other notes I’ve made: leather, runes paperwork. At the time, I was working at the University of Essex, and there was a social mailing list for staff. Some of the smaller quantities requested meant that I opted to see if anyone had any throwaway scraps rather than order in bulk. Emailing to see if anyone had any leather they didn’t want any more certainly raised a few digital eyebrows, and resulted in more than a few intrigued responses.
I don’t remember being too concerned for Alex’s safety at the time, though the illness he picked up in Fort William during his resupply was worrying as was, towards the end of his time on the west coast, the public transport system across swathes of Scotland shutting down. In those last few days—hours, even—the pace of everything changed. Transport was booked, then rebooked as the severity of the change in the weather became clearer. Options were dwindling fast and, by the time Alex made it home, we had managed to figure out the only route from the west coast to Wick that was possible before everything completely shut down for several days. I messaged ticket details to Alex’s mobile, monitoring the weather and the transport options, sending through updates. I remember receiving Alex’s message from the car after he had been collected by Mum and Dad in Inverness, describing the blizzard they were travelling through. In the evening, after they’d had to abandon the car, I stayed online constantly refreshing the National Rail site watching the expected train arrival time into Helmsdale get later and later, hoping it would get through. I remember Alex messaging to say how worried he was about Mum and Dad, and that he had them marching up and down to get their circulation going.
Alex and I have always been friends as well as siblings. When I was younger, I used to go exploring and climbing with him and his friends. When I was at sixth form, Alex would come out drinking with me and my friends (though I made it quite clear at that point that he was not to Be A Big Brother). Later, there would be trips to see each other for parties, or visits to Edinburgh with friends. Later still, Alex stayed with my friend Heather and I the weekend before he left the UK. We hosted a farewell party (that somehow ended up having a Gin Cruise theme), and on the Monday night we went to see Kishi Bashi playing down Cowgate. On the Tuesday morning, Alex left the UK, and has only been back for a handful of visits since.
As well as all this, I have always respected Alex as a writer. And I have always known that he was interested in what he now refers to as ancestral skills. Thinking back to when we were younger, I can’t remember when Alex didn’t have—and regularly reference—his very well-read copy of the SAS Survival Handbook.1 He knew who Ray Mears was years before he became even remotely mainstream.2 Alex taught my sisters and I how to start a fire3, and we would head off to play down the burn with our backpacks loaded with all sorts of things that we might need in an emergency. He used to carry little circles of copper wire in case we needed to snare a rabbit for food, and I can’t remember him ever not carrying his pocket knife. Strangely, such an emergency never actually came to pass in late 1980s and early 1990s Orkney.
It is so strange writing this now, several lifetimes later. These memories create flashes of what it felt like to be me fourteen years ago, but more than that they specifically remind me of what it meant to be Alex’s sister and friend (and editor!) during that time. That sense of knowing that what he had chosen to do was absolutely the right decision for him, and the excitement that I and other friends shared of not knowing what would come next for him—but the certainty that, in some way, this was the beginning of something important. A much-needed change, a spur.
It is interesting how Alex’s reflections on this time of his life have changed, how what he originally thought might be the focus of his planned book on A Fall in Time has shifted slightly due to his iterative auto-ethnographic approach. Specifically, this year’s series of notes have had an added level of interest as Alex compared his previous notes and saved photographs with his original journals, noting things that he had broadly forgotten over the years, as they had become less important to the person he is now.
More than anything, however, when I think back—and forward—I can’t shake off the feeling that it was a privilege to be able to play some part in making elements of Alex’s adventures a reality, and being able to offer some support in helping him do what needed to be done, whether by providing a platform for his voice or just by looking after his worldly belongings. And I would urge anyone who has the opportunity to help a friend in a similar way to leap at the chance to be even such a tiny footnote in their story, because you will never for a second regret helping someone find the clarity they need to become more comfortable in their own skin.
I do still want my dining room back, though.
What About You?
Have you ever done this, asked a friend—or sibling—for their recollections on an event which was fundamental to your growth? How did those recollections differ from your own? What do you think this tells us about our memories? Have you been able to help a friend or family member achieve the sort of clarity Lydia mentions?
Scribbles and Sketches and More
Lydia, like me, has had a presence on the internet for a long time now, in various differing iterations. She has a Substack letter of her own, sharing four seasonal notebooks, each a month long, throughout the year.
The latest such notebook is entitled Vignettes, and is also a very handy introduction to all the other places she can be found. As this notebook is a series of snippets from the past, it is an ideal place to start to discover Lydia’s work. (And do please have a look at the links there, too, especially TessaHedron, that is something you need to be watching carefully.)
Lyd also has a website, which also contains links to her upcoming not-on-Substack newsletter (found here) and Bluesky account (I have one too, but haven’t really used it).
It is a privilege and joy to have a sister who is also such a good friend. To have such a constant in your life is something many can take for granted yet, when you think about it, such a relationship is truly magical. I am exceptionally grateful to Lydia for sharing her thoughts above, but also for being there—and continuing to be here, now. That is a wonderful thing.
Finally
This letter feels a good way to tie up the entirely-free version of A Fall In Time. Thirteen weeks of letters, daily posting on Notes, hundreds of original photographs, and thousands upon thousands of words. It is quite an undertaking to share such a thing, for free, trusting that, eventually, that work will be worth it.
Both last year, and this, I have treasured each and every little heart on my letters and Notes, every time someone shares them and, especially, every single comment from you. This form of two-way relationship is not to be underestimated, it can enhance the work, make it clearer to the writer what it is they are trying to achieve and say, and also suggest extra pathways to explore.
Thank you, all.
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And please don’t forget about that special 20% offer on all paid subscriptions, it will only be active until the middle of January, 2026.
Finally, I want to leave you with a thought, one which has been running around my mind for a while now, but one which I have only been able to recently articulate (or semi-articulate, you be the judge).
The biggest lesson I learnt from those weeks living out in nature was not how to keep warm in sub-zero temperatures, it was not how to find food and water and process them, it was not how to recognise the right fuel to burn, or how to light those fires I needed every single day. It was not even how to understand the language of the birds, telling me what else was nearby, nor to follow the paths and tracks of the deer, learning how they moved through the land, and why. It was not even how important family, friends, community and people to rely on are, even if you are alone in the woods. These things, and many, many more were and remain crucial to my life, but the biggest lesson was something different—and something a little alarming when I realised it.
If you (or I) do something like this, go and live in nature, as we are arguably meant to, it changes you (and me). It changes us for the better, but it also creates a huge problem and disconnect with the vast, vast majority of everyone else we will ever meet.
Most of us reading live in a world where corporations essentially rule. All is about the power of money and its seeming ability to get us everything we need.4 The moment we begin to learn those skills I list above, and all the others essential to a self-reliant, small-community-centric, natural life, we step beyond that world into something else.
You may not realise it (perhaps ever, or perhaps not for a long time), but you are now someone other, someone those ruling corporations greatly fear.
By learning to live as our ancestors all did, by understanding nature on a far, far deeper level, we become out of time and timeless, we become something rebellious, simply by wanting to understand what it means to live this way. We—and our ideas—are not what the rulers want to hear, and certainly not what they want to help promote. There is no money to be made in that.
No one in charge likes rebellion.
This is the big lesson I learnt, and one I shall finally be discussing in far more depth in the coming months, how my own experience can perhaps help others to refocus and how, perhaps, a natural life is precisely what is needed to rebalance our world into something stronger, something more wonderful, something real.
Surprisingly, some of the knowledge I absorbed from this book, decades ago, came in very handy when I first visited tropical countries, many years later.
Editor’s Note: This was thanks to finding a copy of The Survival Handbook: A Practical Guide to Woodcraft and Woodlore by Raymond Mears. Long out of print, this book is superb but also, perhaps, a touch problematic—some of the content and even phrasing is very similar to other, earlier works in the field, which is possibly why it has never been reprinted (finding your own voice to write and, especially, to write things to teach, is something which takes a long time, otherwise one can often accidentally end up aping your own teachers). Still, it is truly excellent and taught me much, going far beyond the usual ‘survival’ techniques common in the literature at that time.
Memorably, once when very young, using the car as a windbreak… I’ve since learnt that to light fires below petrol tanks may not be the best option.
I am absolutely aware that this might seem at a disconnect with my special offer to try and gain more paying subscribers. I am not going to advocate we all run away into the woods and wear skins and nettle fibre clothing, or refuse to accept that money still plays a role in our world, that is reductive and unnecessary. Instead, I will be exploring the question of how we can perhaps collectively move beyond this concept, a concept which, when you think about it, isn’t even real—money represents a deep illusion, yet it is what apparently drives civilisation, or so we are taught.
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What a wonderful way to end; and what a wonderful relationship you both obviously have. Thank you for some of the best writing on Substack, too… – I felt I was there with you many times; and the whole thing felt current, present, and extremely valuable.
These feel like weak words, in comparison to yours: but I am extremely grateful to have been allowed deep into your world. In some small way it has changed me, and will always stay with me.
Season’s greetings to you and yours… -- Stephen.
Nowhere near as in depth, but Matthew and I had a chat about the games we had on our Commodore 64 (which is being relaunched). He knew them all. I still have nothing for the Egg game or that Mole.