Floating in a sea of stories

Charlie Beckett used a metaphor in a recent (excellent) article that has become more commonly used of late “drowning in a sea of stories about our world”. (Sometimes also seen as “drowning in a sea of photographs”). Charlie doesn’t actually think we’re drowning of course, just that we’re spoiled for choice, and like me he welcomes the multitude of stories on offer. His piece deals with the challenge of making an ’emotional connection’ between news producers and consumers, and “the redefining of the classic idea of journalistic objectivity” this may necessitate. It’s well worth a read, and I was reflecting on it over the weekend as my son and I took a wander over to the west coast, into Lochaber and my home territory.

This blog post that has resulted from our few days away is neither ‘news’ nor is it really ‘journalism’ but it is about stories, and the emotions they might evoke. (Its got pictures too if you don’t want words, and if you click them you can view them larger).

 

 

 

 

 

It was a boy’s adventure, primarily to visit a location I’ve not been to for a couple of decades, the Fossil Burn near Lochaline, which William has been fascinated with ever since I told him the story of being there when I was a child and bringing home some fossils which now reside on a shelf in our house. William has often contemplated them, and one day took them to school to show his Primary 2 classmates, who thought they were pretty cool, so he was keen to visit. It was a chance also to call in and see his gran, my mum, who has dementia, and is in a care home in Fort William. A recent broken hip has badly affected her mobility, and as a frail 90 year old she’s unlikely to get back on her feet again.

 

 

The plan was to do a clockwise trip around Ardnamurchan Peninsula, west from Fort William to Corran, through Ardgour to Lochaline, cut back to Strontian and on to Kilchoan, then back round to Glenuig and Lochailort, before the long lochside run back to Fort William via Glenfinnan. This is wild country, with sparse communities, rugged coast and many single track roads. It’s also a place I spent a lot of my youth working as a carpenter/joiner, in remote country houses, small farms and crofts and anywhere else needing repaired. Given the rain-forest amounts of precipitation in this area, there was a lot of rotten wood to wrestle with, which I did in all sorts of weather, getting sunstroke as often as near-frostbite, but usually just very very wet.

And so as we slowly bimbled along in my 26 year old Land Rover each corner revealed a new jaw-dropping vista which elicited tale after tale of the places I’d worked, the people I’d encountered, and the wildlife spectacles that had unfolded in front of me. These involving the usual cast of characters: wildcats, eagles, red deer, wild goats, and the memorable day almost 200 dolphins came up Loch Sunart to Camas Inas following a shoal of mackerel, and not forgetting the tale of the otter that bit my foot, which William never tires of hearing. So game on – as we made slow but stately progress William happily shouted “OTTER! – TICK!” as we spotted yet another wild thing going about its business.

 

 

 

 

 

My favourite of the great West Highland driving-games is roadsign spotting, ‘bagging’ carefully crafted and often subtle alterations made to passing place and direction signs, the work of wandering wags with a penknife and a felt pen. These are the best we spotted, William got the first two, spotting them well before me, and crying out “SIGN! – TICK!” but thought the third one was a real ‘thing’ and insisted we should look out for ‘cow jockeys’ on the road. This being near Lochaline, he might be right.

 

 

 

But unspoken, and floating through my mind from time to time were my recollections of people. Carpentry is all about wood, but it’s also all about meeting people’s needs, and often those needs were more than practical.  It’s probably tempting to look at these images and think how idyllic it all looks. For some it is. For others it’s certainly not. Working in remote rural areas of the Highlands in the 1970’s and 80’s I quickly realized the high psychological price many people paid for their solitude, often enforced through their partner’s work choices or limitations. Many times I left some remote cottage at the end of a lonely glen to drive the 2.5 hours back home to Fort William acutely aware that my joinery skills had taken second place to my love of conversation and the sharing of stories, and the owner’s desperate need for company.

One conversation sticks in my mind, with the wife of a forester living in a cosy little house in a remote glen, surrounded by woodland, deer in the garden, pine martens coming in her window and raiding her breadbin, and loneliness. After a week in her home replacing windows, and chatting amiably on a range of subjects with her, we were on good terms, and aware the job was finishing and I’d probably not be returning, she finally broke down “Look at this, look at this, what’s it all about, what’s life all about?” she said on the edge of tears, then couldn’t hold them back and began to cry in earnest, shoulders heaving “Trees….just trees, trees everywhere……I hate the fucking things, look, they’re all around me…. I can’t see anything beyond them! Is there anything beyond them? Not for me. It’s trees and trees and more trees, my life is all trees…………..and I’ve come to loathe them.” and defeated she disappeared off out the door.

And there were a few folks whose desire to shake off whatever demons possessed them had led them to some idyllic spot, miles from any other habitation, but who had yet to realize that whatever haunted them had simply come along for the ride, and its malevolent presence stalked them daily. There were one or two places I worked where there was a palpable sense of risk. One of them in particular has stayed with me, involving a young man cared for by his parents, who had moved with him to this glorious lochside spot, isolated and distant from any services, but who struggled to cope with their son’s threatening behaviour and fascination with knives. I actually had to hide my chisels and axe from him as I worked. I learned a lot about people in those years, about both our successes and failures to cope and the very fine line that often divided those outcomes.

But William and I saw very few people on our first day out. We drove through Kingairloch, and saw no one, and no cars passed us either way. And settling for the night in a stretch of forest on the hillside saw nobody, and heard no cars pass, only the thrashing of the trees as the forecast gale, which was stopping us camping on the exposed shoreline of Loch Linnhe, gained momentum and whacked them to and fro.

Next morning the gale abated, and as the rain showers passed through Castle Stalker appeared across the Loch at Appin. William loved the story of me rowing across to the castle to repair the windows on a winter day,  another round in the endless fight against several centuries of corrosive salty air.

 

 

 

 

The fossil burn on the side of Loch Aline was just as I remembered it. William loved it. He bashed away valiantly at a few large rocks with little effect, my sunglasses protecting his eyes from the worst of the shrapnel. I showed him the more delicate way, picking some softer slabs and holding them on edge, then to gently tap at the layers of sediment that would easily split to reveal the little shells we coveted. “We’re the first people to see these since they were deposited here between 35 million and 200 million years ago William” I informed him. “That’s older than granny” he replied knowingly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Cows daddy! Cows! Look out, INCOMING……COWS! COWS……INCOMING COWS!” William yelled as a herd of cattle emerged from the wildly wooded hillside behind him, one after another, eighteen in all (William did counting practice) and happily joined us by the burn, unconcerned by our presence. Disappointed that a rather robust calf didn’t want a bite of his apple William resumed his foraging in the burn finding a few more choice lumps of sediment worth tapping at.

 

 

 

Our next highlight (literally) was the Ardnamurchan Lighthouse on the most westerly point on the British mainland. It’s a long, winding, bouncy and wild drive, culminating in the most westerly traffic lights on the UK mainland.

 

 

 

William was concerned about whether the barbed wire on the Caravan Park gate near Ardnamurchan Point was to keep ‘something’ inside from getting out, or outside from getting in. He decided with the wisdom of the 7 year old that either way he didn’t like the look of it and thought we’d be better off not being there to find out. So we left.

 

 

 

 

 

 

We made a little detour to Loch Moidart and Castle Tioram, a fine piece of crumbling Highland history dating back to the 13th century. There was a proposal by the owners to renovate it, partly as a home and also a museum but to enable public access. However this fell foul of Scheduled Monument legislation, and has since been ‘closed’ to the public due to safety concerns after some of its wall fell down. The ‘security’ gate was open so we had a brief inspection. William loves old ruins as much as he loves stories so after we’d a good look around, we sat outside the castle on the knoll looking across to the small island of Eilean Shona and I told him the story of going to the island to do some joinery and roof repair work several decades ago. Three of us: my joiner colleague Jimmy, Jock the plumber, and me.

We were all set for a few weeks of work on Eilean Shona renovating a couple of buildings. Our gear consisted of tools, both joiner’s and plumber’s, various bags of food and clothes, sleeping bags, and several very heavy rolls of lead for the plumber (for roofing). Oh, and whisky too. I remain uncertain as to how many bottles, but there were several, as both Jimmy and Jock were extremely fond of a night time tipple. No that’s a bit misleading. They both had a strong affinity for drink. And Jimmy had paid the price for this by shoving his hand into a circular saw one day and losing a few fingers.

It was going to be an interesting stay.

 

The boatman met us and said we needed to be quick to catch the tide as it was on the turn, and not being very deep in the channel, if we didn’t get off now we’d be wading through lots and lots and lots of mud to get anywhere near a floating boat when the tide started to fall. So we threw everything into the boat, climbed in and set off. The boat was overloaded. Safe enough, if you know boats, but overloaded. Freeboard was only an inch or so. Jock was terrified. I don’t think he’d actually realized when he agreed to do the job that an island is generally understood to be a piece of land surrounded by a large amount of water. A minor detail he’d overlooked. This floating interlude was all coming as something of a shock. He gripped the gunwales with both of his hard work-worn hands, a tight grip. Unfortunately he didn’t keep them there.

We turned our backs for a moment to watch the island come closer, and then heard a loud splash and turned back to see Jock launching a roll of lead over the side. This was following close on the heels of the other item that had created the first splash, and which was already making its way to the sea bed. This first item was, unfortunately, Jimmy’s large tool bag containing all of his joiner’s tools!

Overcome with briny terror Jock had decided that lightening the boat was a wise move and ditching the heavy stuff, such as tools and lead, would do this in short order. We stopped him throwing anything else by wrestling him to the floor of the boat and restraining him, and got to the far side safely. Jimmy and Jock went off to have a drink, separately. Jimmy to mourn the loss of all his tools, Jock to recover from seasickness, and in a bid to elude the curse Jimmy swore he was going to lay upon him. This being the West Highlands one must maintain a healthy respect for the peculiar powers some possess. I kept out of their way and took a look at the job we would start next morning, and then went for a good long walk.

 

The next morning at low tide the boatman and I floated out over the bay and we hooked Jimmy’s tools and the roll of lead up from the sandy bottom. A good rinse in fresh water and they were fine.

On morning two as I carried in some more wood I heard a commotion in the area where we were working. It was Jimmy, with a sore head, and something seriously wrong.

“Rats! Rats! Effing rats! Look what the little fuckers have done to my hammer! Effing rats! Can you believe it!”

I looked. I could believe it.

We were professional tradesmen and the one thing we did not compromise on was the quality of our tools, particularly our hammers. Our weapon of choice was Estwing, the high quality American brand. Expensive, but beautifully made, perfectly balanced, and made to last. I had chosen the polyurethane handle version, harder in the hand but more robust. Jimmy had chosen the leather version, softer, but more comfortable and with great shock-absorbing qualities. Unfortunately it’s ability to absorb shocks was failing this morning. Whilst Jimmy was getting ‘mellow’ the previous evening, the rat had diligently spent its time chewing large quantities of prime USDA Grade 1 cowhide from the Estwing handle. The shock of this discovery was having a devastating effect on Jimmy, who wandered off cursing, kicking things and generally venting his ire on anything he encountered.

A hammer is a tool that spends most of your working day in your fist, for knocking wood into place, nailing, chiselling and more. Muscle memory lets you ‘know’ where the hammer is in your hand, the point of perfect balance you require whether hammering down the way, up the way, or sideways. Sadly the main memory that Jimmy was left with was ‘how it used to be’. The rat was now possessed of a belly full of leathermemory. And no doubt feeling rather smug too.
I tried to figure out a temporary repair, but it was terminal. It was going to need returning to the manufacturer for a new handle. I taped it up as best I could and left it in Jimmy’s tool bag. I thought about suggesting that as he had fewer fingers than most carpenters he might not miss ALL the handle. But decided against this, given we were on an island, more or less trapped, and with nowhere for me to hide

Next morning Jimmy had a sore head. He had drowned his sorrows the night before and was feeling rather delicate. I walked out into the courtyard and spotted him, but he looked unusual. He had a strange stance, kind of half-crouched and ‘pouncy’ looking. Sort-of catlike, in a large unfurry kind of way. I followed the line of his bodily attitude, and the direction of his gaze, the way a hunter follows the lines of a gundog. And then I saw it. The thing upon which Jimmy’s gaze was obviously fixed.

A rat. A large, glossy, well-fed rat. THE rat. And which was now A Cornered Rat. And Jimmy was advancing towards it with all the stealth of a bushman in a slot canyon.

The rat hissed and scratched. Looking first at Jimmy’s left hand, then his right, both his arms were outstretched to keep the rat ‘contained’ in the corner created by the junction of the two building’s walls. The rat could see Jimmy’s hands were empty.

Jimmy advanced.

I froze as the drama unfolded before me. Jimmy moving in slow-motion, the canny rat trying to figure out it’s best option. But there was no doubt about it, ratty was cornered.

Slowly Jimmy extended his right arm and reached for a long broad-headed stable brush which I had left propped against the wall after brushing up all our woodshavings the night before.

Jimmy curled his few remaining calloused fingers around the brush handle  and  then very very very    s l o w l y   t u r n e d    t h e   b r u s h   a r o u n d   so that that the long slim handle was in front of him. The shaft was now over his shoulder, the wide heavy brush head behind his head. Holding it as if a spear, Jimmy’s shoulders flexed as he wound himself up to deliver ‘The Mother of all Rat Whacks’. Thirty years of joiner’s nailing muscles rippled as a burst of raw energy was discharged into the brush handle.

The rat could see it coming and backed tightly into the corner, eyes flashing. Jimmy uncoiled like a striking cobra, sending the handle of the broom arrowing directly towards the doomed rat. Then the handle stopped.

Abruptly.

Very abruptly.

Very painfully abruptly I have to inform you.

Painfully for Jimmy that is.

The handle stopped about two feet away from the rat’s head…….

…….because the broad metal reinforced brush head had collided heavily with the back of Jimmy’s neck, with an enormous THWACK. This collision had arrested the handle’s trajectory in an instant. An instant in which the wily rat, seeing the opportunity, dashed out to freedom, and in passing staring Jimmy directly in the eyes as he hit the concrete floor in front of ratty. A hunter felled by his own harpoon.

I had to go and hide so I could laugh. It was painful, my sides hurt.

I’ll spare you the gory details of the rest of our island sojourn. Suffice to say I learned a lot about head injuries, concussion, hydrophobia, hangovers and rats. Oh, and a wee bit about how to securely refix brush heads to handles……….

 

 

 

 

 

Our last stop was Loch Ailort, near Glenuig. A place I’d spent a lot of time as a child. My dad knew many people in the area and fished here often, and occasioanlly his work took him down to check up on rural Post Offices. This was great fun for me involving as it invariably did, dangerous narrow tracks, dodgy boat trips, wading through raging rivers on my dad’s back, and more often drams and stories with his cronies. The weather had gone from gales and hailstones to balmy tropical, with limpid seas, which we made the most of.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Our final stop was at Glenfinnan to look at the railway viaduct. We walked up the track behind two hungover Irish lads, one wearing swimming goggles, who sang an endless stream of folk songs. They were with a group of friends from Dundee University and had climbed Ben Nevis the day before, then celebrated their achievement in the evening. They were having an infectiously good time. We caught up eventually and had the craic with them. I teased them “My son William was asking why you were singing, so I told him you were an Irish Barbershop Quartet!” they all laughed “But he didn’t know what a quartet was so I told him it was four singers, singing together” They looked at William, who went all shy. “But William isn’t stupid so he pointed out that there was only two of you…..so I told him that that was because the Irish are twice as good at singing as anyone else you only need two!” and they all burst out cheering and laughing and spun off into spontaneous singing once again. Their glorious voices echoed off the viaduct above us, a strange quirk of the arch’s design that amplifies sound immensely. A moment of unrehearsed aural magic.

 

 

 

 

We reached Fort William eventually. Granny was pleased to see us, but confused as to who William was. Dementia has robbed her of much of her speech, and recollection of even recent events can be fragmentary, but William cares little for such details and excitedly related our adventures, where we’d been and what we’d seen. How we’d caught a fish but it had escaped, but we’d seen otters and basking sharks and all sorts of other stuff. And how daddy had almost fallen down a gully in the dark when he went out for a pee at 2am, and laughing at the thought of it. Forming his own stories just for her.

 

 

His attention was drawn to the tv playing on the shelf in granny’s room, ‘You’ve Been Framed’ was on. Video clips of unlikely events in other people’s lives. One video in particular caught his eye, a baby lying face down having just had a nappy change and a bottom dusted with talcum powder. Suddenly the baby farted, sending a great cloud of talcum powder skywards. William went hysterical with laughter, and his granny, infected by his uninhibited hilarity, giggled merrily in unison. Another elderly lady passing slowly by on a walking frame in the corridor was attracted by the chaos and stood in the doorway peering in, and finally a member of care staff hearing the commotion and thinking there had been a mishap hurried in with concern on her face. Only to witness William with his granny, saying excitedly “Granny granny did you see that! Did you see that! The baby let off a giant whufflecloud it was huuuuge, it came out the baby’s bottom!” And granny’s face lit up again.

I was reminded yet again as I watched the two of them together how important our stories are. Like the fossils we’d sought a few days earlier, our stories are just little pieces of our lives laid down in the sediment of memory. Mum may have long ago lost touch with many of hers, although sometimes if we dig and dig we may unearth a fragment or two, but we know they’re there, and even hidden they are the foundation upon which William’s memories will be deposited, before they too become part of our family’s history, solid but unseen.

Stories are important. They’re worth remembering, worth relating, worth carrying on into our futures, if we can. Thank you patient reader, for taking the time to float along on this one of mine.

The truth is you see, if I write these things down, I wont ever lose them.