Chance encounters and ‘the life of a story’

I like to travel. I’ve traveled a lot alone. Alone, you meet people. And the aspect of travel that continually amazes me is how the experience of travel lingers on with you, long long after you come home. So here is one story about travel. There are no images, save for the ones you might care to construct in your imagination.

This particular tale might make you consider how the ripples of your presence might linger on in other places some time after you’ve passed through. It’s also about coincidence, that strange force that unites disparate events to create something other, something quite puzzling and often remarkable.

I motorcycled through Colorado one autumn, to photograph the fall colours, acres of gold and reds in the sharp mountain air. One morning, I stopped at a viewpoint and set up my camera to record the astonishing spectacle of vibrant aspens whipping back and forth in the turbulent mountain air. Two American riders engaged in conversation with me, a husband and wife, just retired and enjoying their free time and love of motorcycling. We were headed the same way so followed each other through the trees, sharp sweet autumn smells filling our nostrils as we rode through the warm sunlit groves, followed by chill dense air in the shadows, stopping here and there to take some pictures.  Then we flipped the bikes to and fro down a mountain pass to the town of Silverton, where they offered to buy me breakfast. Over our meal we discussed travel and they said they’d always wanted to visit the UK and Scotland, so I said I’d send them some photos of themselves I’d taken, and Scottish travel info and maps and keep in touch, but I did have some Scottish souvenirs with me which I gave them, much to their delight. It was a memorable morning of light and colour, sharp air and friendship.

We said our farewells and they rode off as I fiddled with my bike. I pulled out of the carpark and got less than 50m down the street when a Police wagon slid in behind me and barped its siren and ordered me over. A large police officer emerged and strode towards me, his face breaking into a smile as he realised he’d got me anxious. “Hey son, you from Scotland? Saw the Scottish flag on your bike and wondered if you were?”  The delightful conversation that ensued revealed he was the Sheriff of the County, and of Scottish descent, loved playing the bagpipes in the local pipe band and was really keen to go to ‘the old country’ as he’d never been there. Turned out he was with his wife A. to whom he introduced me, and explained they were on their way to visit friends for the weekend otherwise they’d have offered to take me to their own home for a meal and blether. I gave them a small Scottish gift and they were thrilled, and we promised to keep in touch, and I said I’d send some information for them to plan their trip. And off we all went.

Back home in Scotland just before Christmas I prepared a letter for both sets of acquaintances telling them how nice it was to meet them and containing a few photos I’d taken, and Scottish travel stuff – maps and suggested itineraries based on my experience with some personal anecdotes of good times that I’d had in these places, and little local tips about unusual and offbeat things to see and do. Sent them off and received no responses. The following year I sent another smaller set of stuff to each, again with a personal note. No reply. This was repeated for the next few years, until it was just a card I was sending. And then I stopped.

Many many years later I received a card and letter from Carl the motorcyclist. It made me weep. It explained how he and his wife had returned home enthused by our meeting and started planning a trip to Scotland. But his wife had a hospital visit the week after we’d met and terminal cancer was diagnosed, aggressive and inoperable, and so they simply waited for the inevitable. By Christmas she was upbeat but in physical decline, but then my package of Scottish tour material had arrived and she was utterly delighted so together they planned their final trip, to Scotland. But both knowing this was a journey they would never make. But he explained how the process of doing so had been so therapeutic for her, and also because the morning spent motorcycling through the autumn colours with me was the last trip they’d been able to make together and they’d felt it was so special. Sadly she died shortly afterwards and he’d been devastated and had gone off the rails with grief but was now back in control and getting his life together again, and thanked me for sending the letters, that they’d been of immense help, and he felt guilty for not replying until now, and wished me well.

A week later my phone rang. It was J, the Policeman from Colorado. He apologised profusely for not being in touch and explained that life had changed dramatically for him. The week after we met his wife needed hospital tests for problems she’d been having, and the following year this was diagnosed as a malignant tumour and she’d been hospitalised. He thanked me for the maps and guides and particularly my letters and said they’d been really grateful to receive them and that they’d used them to plan their Scottish trip, but they both knew it would never happen. But that the experience of doing it had been a great distraction. She died during that same year and he’d gone off the rails consumed with grief, lost his job and lost his way completely. Now, years later things were back in focus again and he was wrestling his life back into shape. One thing he wondered if I could do for him – could I obtain some sheet music for piping and some reeds for his bagpipes, because he was playing the pipes again and teaching younger people.  I said I’d be delighted to help. And we said our goodbyes and promised to keep in touch.

Now I’m no musician, but my Glaswegian pal Tam is, playing a range of traditional instruments with great elegance and skill. He’s also a keen storyteller, and a lover of life and people. So I asked Tam the best place to get sheet music and reeds.“Why would you need them?”  he asked puzzled. So I told him the story, as related above. And he looked pensive “I’ll see what I can do” he said. Next day he brought me a small box. And the sheet music. Expressing puzzlement, I did as I was told and opened the box, to reveal a beautiful, exquisitely crafted, practice chanter. And Tam told me it’s story:

“When I was younger I wanted to make musical instruments. And near me in Glasgow was a gifted instrument maker, but who had a severe drink problem. I asked to be his apprentice and he laughed, and said he couldn’t afford to pay me, so I said I’d work for free just to learn. So I did. A part of me wondered if maybe my being there could stop the drinking because this man’s work was simply beautiful and the thought of him not making any more instruments made me sad. He said the best way to learn to make an instrument was to make one. So he told me to make a practice chanter.

Of course I was crap and could hardly do anything, so when I got stuck I asked him for help and he did a wee bit. This went on for several weeks, I’d do a wee bit, well not do very much actually, and get stuck and ask for help and he’d show me the correct way, and slowly a chanter appeared from the exotic woods we used.

But of course it wasn’t me making it, it was him.  And sadly as the chanter started to take shape, his drinking increased, until he no longer came to work on time, or didn’t even turn up some days. It all finally fell apart, and I had to leave.

But I took with me something really special, the last musical instrument this chap ever made. This is it, I’ve kept it safe for years, with its story.

I want you to send it to your friend in Colorado, but it MUST go with it’s own story and it’s significance, and you have to get him to promise that when he is finished with it he has to pass it on to another player, but with the story of how it was created and how and why it made the journey to the USA. And stress that when it passes on again it’s story must go with it.”

I was overwhelmed by his gesture and sent the chanter off by AirMail.  Several weeks later an emotional reply from J in the USA arrived and both Tam and I were satisfied the chanter was in safe hands.

But then silence ensued. No word from J in the USA for more than two decades, and so a year ago I tried to track him down through his old employers, the Colorado Police and finally was able to get back in touch again.

In a bittersweet follow up email J explained how he met another woman, spent 18 wonderful years with her, raising her two sons from a previous marriage, until she too died of cancer, unexpectedly, in 2000 and his life had been turned upside down once again.  But he was still finding comfort in his love of playing the ‘pipes and said:

Even with all the sadness in my life I still consider myself a lucky man to have had such wonderful women to love and share life with.  I still have and treasure the practice chanter you gave me. I also bought a very nice set of Scottish pipes a few years ago. But must confess that I am still struggling.

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Photography has taken me to places and provided experiences and insights that I doubt would have happened otherwise. That’s a huge part of it’s magic, the realisation that every time you lift a camera and press the button you light a fuse that sometimes simply fizzes and pops, but occasionally explodes brilliantly filling your life with light, and an echo that lingers on and on.

You know that print you promised to send someone, but have not yet found the time to do it……..I’d suggest you make the time to do so. It might start something new, or be another chapter in a story you might never otherwise know about and which weaves it’s way through other’s lives without you. Or it might not. You never can tell.

And as for ‘travel photography’, well the ‘photography’ part is all about what you bring back with you. The ‘travel’ bit is so very much about what you leave behind you.

Something to think about.