"is that a sign saying buckie on it!?"
asked the delighted girls
at the back of the bob scott's
when duncan and i walked in
"is there any room at the inn?" i had said
"aye, plenty!" they said, "there's wine too."
three boys and three girls
(three young men and three young women)
a merry young group of young students from aberdeen young
they were certainly welcoming; they were merry. melodious too,
andrew brought a guitar and sang songs and everyone played songs and andrew said,
"everyone - every young person - plays guitar
in scotland
now"
young, they ask us what is it like to now have finished university
duncan is still studying art therapy, actually. we talk about us all being students of the University of Life. duncan says he knows several people who haven't gone to university but have chosen another path and love what they are doing. luigi (from nairn, actually called andrew but called luigi to distinguish him from andrew) asks me what is the best method to learn a foreign language; "una mesa para cuatro por favor," (he has also studied spanish.) i tell him that a love of learning the language is the essential ingredient, but he is right in that befriending a native speaker and speaking with her or him is a powerful method of directing one's language learning love. luigi's companions comment on his habit of adopting a hang-dog approach in order to encourage others to share their food. i didn't realise how effective his technique was until duncan and i were tucking into our pot of pasta and luigi is there lookin on,
"that
looks
really
good"
"bucky is what we drink in our flat. it is cheap and does the job. actually it is not that cheap it has gone up to eight quid in aberdeen"
"i used this sign last week and i have it now because i plan to hitchhike back to buckie again"
welcoming and merry they were, slowly i could see them catching on to duncan and i's calm reflective ways.
our most significant
act of communication
was to look at each other appreciatively
chewing slowly
eyes open, appreciative
"mmmmmm" "fine" "a fine taste indeed," duncan would say in the voice of a highland laird
:pasta and tomato sauce and garlic and cheese,
or potatoes sheathed in foil baked on the embers draped in olive oil,
or a tipple of whisky.
"i thought about joining your skinnydip in the river last night," duncan said, "but then i thought better of it..."
"inspired by alcohol," he said. he had stayed inside to pluck the guitar,
also when me and the lads went out to look for dry wood in the wet forest with our headtorches
and came back howling like dogs to the wetness and the night.
duncan stayed with the guitar and the girls in the bothy. they hid under the table
so that when we first returned it looked like there was nobody there.
" - or maybe inspired by the ginormous freshness of being in a swift-flowing mountain river"
i thought, "alcohol is a sufficient reason, but not a necessary one"
we saw what duncan thought was a golden eagle,
a big bird soaring far off across the top of the snowy valley
the day we set off to walk over the lairig an laoigh
we got as far as the glas allt mor
a raging wee torrent necessitating
boots off
breeks off
a chilly chily chilly crossing, cold, embracing
the elements.
elemental.
it made our skin go red. it made duncan stand there by the snowy bank of heather
bent over his half pulled up breeks,
pausing
out of exhaustion
every so often giving a little wriggle to one of his legs.
five minutes just to get his breeks back on!
it was difficult for me to suppress my laughter
at the highly unusual sight of this man, belabouring over the simplest of tasks
frozen limbs
not so compliant any more.
it reminded me of julio cortazer's short story about a boy who gets up in the morning and goes to put his pullover on but gets his head stuck up one of the arms and then can't find his way out. his existential angst mounts as he tries another hole but remains trapped inside his dark pullover existential angst help! he can't do it he can he tries again he sees the light he finally makes it outside
phew!
end of the story
plodding through the wet snow the wind whipped up stinging rain in our faces
"windy and rainy" - that is the word description, but this is the feeling
a battle.
the cairngorms.
the thought of the bigger wider fords of avon which lay ahead
the icy grip of the fingers of the water of winter.
elemental.
"lets head back for another night in bob scott's"
beautiful bob scott's with his hot stove and wood panelled insulated bothy warmth
and an encouter this time with two older men up from fife
and two younger men, one tubby and red-skinned, the other lean and blonde, who came in later that evening having just walked thirty kilometres from the tarf hotel, necessitating a three hour detour in the morning to get round the flooded river, and a total of twelve river crossings throughout the day, often holding each other and crossing as a duo, as they later recounted.
the snow melts
and fills the watercourses.
elemental.
the next day duncan walks back to braemar and aberdeen while i continue over the lairig ghru to speyside.
in the lairig ghru there is nothing but Deep Peace
the wind, temporarily, has abated,
the only sound is the muffled white water of the infant Dee.
in the glen are russet grasses amid faded brown heather and grey granite boulders, spattered in the south with elusive hints of the sun breaking through clouds.
the snow slopes rise up and give way to the deep misty blue of the high corrie. the black rocky slabs of the devil's point - the showcase rocky peak of the cairngorms, which the gaels saw fit to call Bod an Deamhain (the penis of the Devil) - rise up and disappear in a shroud of enigmatic plateau mist.
at the top of the pass i cross a couple of miles of snow field
where i find
a plump
white
ptarmigan,
stiff,
black eye expresionless
cute little black beak
a bright red streak of feather above his eye
i have never seen a ptarmigan so healthy and unalive and close-up
"i could leave him in this icy exposed burial ground
till the snow melts
and he decomposes
or . . . i could
take him home," i decided.
he is now plucked and in the pot,
and tastes pretty good,
along with the onion and celery and mushroom and garlic and herbs and olive oil that i added.
a different kind of burial.
twenty five kilometres after leaving bob scott's i got to drake's bothy near loch an eileann,
glad to find it still open
in the dark
the simple wooden hut
sheltered me from the rain
my cardboard sign became wet in the rain and disintegrated and blew apart in the wind,
but i stuck out my thumb anyway on the A9
and not one minute passed before david and catherine lowry stopped for me
told me they were recently back in the uk
after building their own wooden boat,
sailing across the atlantic
and running 6,500 miles from the south to the north of
south america.
full of enthusiasm they were
about hitchiking about ecology about living in the countryside about birds
i told them about the golden eagle about bob scott's about my plans to cross the atlantic
they encouraged me - like others have done - to head to the canary islands in november and ask the america-bound yachts there for a lift.
"it took us a month to cross, but we were taking it easy.
most boats have a motor which they turn on when there is no wind,
and cross in 21 days"
it is inspiring to be fed by such enthusiasm on the road
- otherwise one would have to keep the flame of enthusiasm going
all on one's own.
although i didn't tell them that.
i just said, "thanks for the lift" "enjoy torridon"
they were going up to torridon.
on the road out of inverness, again before a minute was up
a van stopped
containing a gently spoken man from aberdeen
who took me to fochabers
he tipified that quietly spoken north-east character
who is devoid of bravado
who doesn't shy away from speaking slowly,
pausing to find the right word,
happy to converse in a wandering way,
consider any topic: travelling, the love of languages, local dialects, the suppression of gaelic by the english, why learn gaelic now? esperanto, local dialects discouraged in schools, his ten year-old grandaughter coming home from school using local expressions, having been actually encouraged to do so by her teacher, hitchhiking in decline, our individualistic society, the hospitality of the stranger in poor countries, when you have little you share it, when one lives in an affluent society one does one's own thing.
he dropped me off in fochabers. he was called rod.
"thanks rod. all the best!"
i walked along the path which runs along the river spey to spey bay - sometimes across soft mud, othertimes prickly gravel, othertimes silky grass, then across the grassy golf course and finally along the sandy beach as the sun sank. the only words i exchanged with anyone in those windy sunlit bracing 9 miles were with an old man with a white beard in portgordon who said,
"you are a hardy chappy!"
"my boots were rubbing - i have walked many miles - so i saw it as a good opportunity to walk barefeet, which i love anyway," i called back to him across the wind.
asked the delighted girls
at the back of the bob scott's
when duncan and i walked in
"is there any room at the inn?" i had said
"aye, plenty!" they said, "there's wine too."
three boys and three girls
(three young men and three young women)
a merry young group of young students from aberdeen young
they were certainly welcoming; they were merry. melodious too,
andrew brought a guitar and sang songs and everyone played songs and andrew said,
"everyone - every young person - plays guitar
in scotland
now"
young, they ask us what is it like to now have finished university
duncan is still studying art therapy, actually. we talk about us all being students of the University of Life. duncan says he knows several people who haven't gone to university but have chosen another path and love what they are doing. luigi (from nairn, actually called andrew but called luigi to distinguish him from andrew) asks me what is the best method to learn a foreign language; "una mesa para cuatro por favor," (he has also studied spanish.) i tell him that a love of learning the language is the essential ingredient, but he is right in that befriending a native speaker and speaking with her or him is a powerful method of directing one's language learning love. luigi's companions comment on his habit of adopting a hang-dog approach in order to encourage others to share their food. i didn't realise how effective his technique was until duncan and i were tucking into our pot of pasta and luigi is there lookin on,
"that
looks
really
good"
"bucky is what we drink in our flat. it is cheap and does the job. actually it is not that cheap it has gone up to eight quid in aberdeen"
"i used this sign last week and i have it now because i plan to hitchhike back to buckie again"
welcoming and merry they were, slowly i could see them catching on to duncan and i's calm reflective ways.
our most significant
act of communication
was to look at each other appreciatively
chewing slowly
eyes open, appreciative
"mmmmmm" "fine" "a fine taste indeed," duncan would say in the voice of a highland laird
:pasta and tomato sauce and garlic and cheese,
or potatoes sheathed in foil baked on the embers draped in olive oil,
or a tipple of whisky.
"i thought about joining your skinnydip in the river last night," duncan said, "but then i thought better of it..."
"inspired by alcohol," he said. he had stayed inside to pluck the guitar,
also when me and the lads went out to look for dry wood in the wet forest with our headtorches
and came back howling like dogs to the wetness and the night.
duncan stayed with the guitar and the girls in the bothy. they hid under the table
so that when we first returned it looked like there was nobody there.
" - or maybe inspired by the ginormous freshness of being in a swift-flowing mountain river"
i thought, "alcohol is a sufficient reason, but not a necessary one"
we saw what duncan thought was a golden eagle,
a big bird soaring far off across the top of the snowy valley
the day we set off to walk over the lairig an laoigh
we got as far as the glas allt mor
a raging wee torrent necessitating
boots off
breeks off
a chilly chily chilly crossing, cold, embracing
the elements.
elemental.
it made our skin go red. it made duncan stand there by the snowy bank of heather
bent over his half pulled up breeks,
pausing
out of exhaustion
every so often giving a little wriggle to one of his legs.
five minutes just to get his breeks back on!
it was difficult for me to suppress my laughter
at the highly unusual sight of this man, belabouring over the simplest of tasks
frozen limbs
not so compliant any more.
it reminded me of julio cortazer's short story about a boy who gets up in the morning and goes to put his pullover on but gets his head stuck up one of the arms and then can't find his way out. his existential angst mounts as he tries another hole but remains trapped inside his dark pullover existential angst help! he can't do it he can he tries again he sees the light he finally makes it outside
phew!
end of the story
plodding through the wet snow the wind whipped up stinging rain in our faces
"windy and rainy" - that is the word description, but this is the feeling
a battle.
the cairngorms.
the thought of the bigger wider fords of avon which lay ahead
the icy grip of the fingers of the water of winter.
elemental.
"lets head back for another night in bob scott's"
beautiful bob scott's with his hot stove and wood panelled insulated bothy warmth
and an encouter this time with two older men up from fife
and two younger men, one tubby and red-skinned, the other lean and blonde, who came in later that evening having just walked thirty kilometres from the tarf hotel, necessitating a three hour detour in the morning to get round the flooded river, and a total of twelve river crossings throughout the day, often holding each other and crossing as a duo, as they later recounted.
the snow melts
and fills the watercourses.
elemental.
the next day duncan walks back to braemar and aberdeen while i continue over the lairig ghru to speyside.
in the lairig ghru there is nothing but Deep Peace
the wind, temporarily, has abated,
the only sound is the muffled white water of the infant Dee.
in the glen are russet grasses amid faded brown heather and grey granite boulders, spattered in the south with elusive hints of the sun breaking through clouds.
the snow slopes rise up and give way to the deep misty blue of the high corrie. the black rocky slabs of the devil's point - the showcase rocky peak of the cairngorms, which the gaels saw fit to call Bod an Deamhain (the penis of the Devil) - rise up and disappear in a shroud of enigmatic plateau mist.
at the top of the pass i cross a couple of miles of snow field
where i find
a plump
white
ptarmigan,
stiff,
black eye expresionless
cute little black beak
a bright red streak of feather above his eye
i have never seen a ptarmigan so healthy and unalive and close-up
"i could leave him in this icy exposed burial ground
till the snow melts
and he decomposes
or . . . i could
take him home," i decided.
he is now plucked and in the pot,
and tastes pretty good,
along with the onion and celery and mushroom and garlic and herbs and olive oil that i added.
a different kind of burial.
twenty five kilometres after leaving bob scott's i got to drake's bothy near loch an eileann,
glad to find it still open
in the dark
the simple wooden hut
sheltered me from the rain
my cardboard sign became wet in the rain and disintegrated and blew apart in the wind,
but i stuck out my thumb anyway on the A9
and not one minute passed before david and catherine lowry stopped for me
told me they were recently back in the uk
after building their own wooden boat,
sailing across the atlantic
and running 6,500 miles from the south to the north of
south america.
full of enthusiasm they were
about hitchiking about ecology about living in the countryside about birds
i told them about the golden eagle about bob scott's about my plans to cross the atlantic
they encouraged me - like others have done - to head to the canary islands in november and ask the america-bound yachts there for a lift.
"it took us a month to cross, but we were taking it easy.
most boats have a motor which they turn on when there is no wind,
and cross in 21 days"
it is inspiring to be fed by such enthusiasm on the road
- otherwise one would have to keep the flame of enthusiasm going
all on one's own.
although i didn't tell them that.
i just said, "thanks for the lift" "enjoy torridon"
they were going up to torridon.
on the road out of inverness, again before a minute was up
a van stopped
containing a gently spoken man from aberdeen
who took me to fochabers
he tipified that quietly spoken north-east character
who is devoid of bravado
who doesn't shy away from speaking slowly,
pausing to find the right word,
happy to converse in a wandering way,
consider any topic: travelling, the love of languages, local dialects, the suppression of gaelic by the english, why learn gaelic now? esperanto, local dialects discouraged in schools, his ten year-old grandaughter coming home from school using local expressions, having been actually encouraged to do so by her teacher, hitchhiking in decline, our individualistic society, the hospitality of the stranger in poor countries, when you have little you share it, when one lives in an affluent society one does one's own thing.
he dropped me off in fochabers. he was called rod.
"thanks rod. all the best!"
i walked along the path which runs along the river spey to spey bay - sometimes across soft mud, othertimes prickly gravel, othertimes silky grass, then across the grassy golf course and finally along the sandy beach as the sun sank. the only words i exchanged with anyone in those windy sunlit bracing 9 miles were with an old man with a white beard in portgordon who said,
"you are a hardy chappy!"
"my boots were rubbing - i have walked many miles - so i saw it as a good opportunity to walk barefeet, which i love anyway," i called back to him across the wind.
Nessun commento:
Posta un commento