my My Wandering

On the Brodick-bound ferry, a young local man was telling his friend the process he had gone through so as to adopt an abused, three-legged stray dog from Romania. At the end, he concluded wondering:

‘I cannot understand how, why Romanians, anyone in the world for that matter, would harm a dog like that. Is it for fun? Is it hatred? Boredom? Superiority complex? Don’t these people have anything better to do? Anything at all?’

He spoke without emphasis, instead he could not simply understand this, doing harm for no particular reason-related purpose; his voice trembled and his utter shock, even now, months after adopting the dog, was still there. A Romanian myself, not only I had no answer, from either a logos or mythos-centered perspective, but I had no clue, no hint I could provide, should the young man have known my nationality and asked me. But I was positive I felt free and relieved every time I left Romania. Relieved of something that was too complex to be put in a line or two.

A cab, a train, two planes, a bus, another train, a ferry, and all that in a single day, or less than a day to be precise. All there seemed to be missing was a rickshaw, a camel and a (motor)bike. And then, once there, the picture was perfect in its glitz frame: a great, blue sky, a still intense afternoon sun, a scenic coast where the mountains rolled down into the sea, with woods, blossoming shrub and wild beaches marking the borderline between the two. The picture however did not show the constant – and expected – wind that made the 7-8C feel considerably lower than that. And yet, thankfully, everything one had left behind while coming here, from spiteful mockery and Orthodox hatred to the eat-until-you-drop and to-hell-with-others life concepts, was ultimately lost and forgotten as irrelevant.

‘Even the clearest logic that has long thrived in daylight is completely destroyed by the meaningless lavish explosion of colour in the evening sky; even history, apparently destined to endure forever, is abruptly made aware of its own end. […] Before the brilliance of evening, before the surging evening clouds, all rot about some ‘better future’ immediately fades away. The present moment is all.’

Upon completing a warming up walk along the coast, my attention was drawn by the several benches spread on the grassy coastline opposite the town centre in Brodick. First, they were not all the same make, as some had probably been placed by the town hall and others by various individuals. And then, most bore small metal plates on which messages had been written: from plain in memoriams all the way to poems dedicated to deceased loved ones. Reading their stories, short as they were, felt like almost walking side by side with those people. All that in the shade of the two imposing peaks above: Goatfell and Ben Tarsuinn.

The morning was sunny and quiet. The straight trail to Goatfell Peak would have taken me 2 hours or slightly more, but, as I wanted to see more of the isle and its mountains, I started walking up the Glen Rosa, then up its tributary Garbh Allt, where an extensive forest plantation had been fenced off so as to protect it from deer. The Goatfell would be visible most of the way, as I was following a horseshoe shape ridge. The going was relatively easy, with less or drier bogs than expected, and I soon reached the Beinn Nuis, where the ridge started to be more dramatic and the wind picked up instantly. Past the Beinn Tarsuinn, a quite steep descent followed, and then I gradually approached the Cìr Mhòr. I now had to descend to the 400 m. lower Saddle, go up the Goatfell North, then follow the ridge on to the Goatfell proper and eventually backtrack to the Cìr Mhòr so as to carry on to Lochranza. But on the way down the Cìr Mhòr en route to the Saddle, I missed the right way which skirted the peak instead of going over it and eventually got stuck in the steep cliffs off the peak due to the relatively big and heavy backpack that did not allow me go back up through a nearly vertical, narrow crack, so that I improvised a rope from a long, strong strap, lowered the backpack as much as possible and let it slide down until it rested on a ledge without tumbling down the steep gully below, then I went back up to the top, found the right way, went down and climbed from the side along another ledge to collect my yellow-and-black companion. This took a while, so that the way down to the Saddle needed be quick.

People were rather few on the way, but there were more on Goatfell, as they had come up the straight trail from Brodick. The view from the top, but not only from there, was impressive, with the scenery ranging from round, grassy crests to rugged ridges complete with gendarmes, fangs, steep gullies and big walls. Deep and long, almost perfectly round-shaped glacial valleys separated the ridges and the bigger ones ended with low saddles dotted with pools or bogs. I hurried back down the Saddle and up the Cìr Mhòr enjoying the cool shade during the steep ascent, then on to the round (from the South) Caisteal Abhail that was topped by some curious rocks shaped like an Inca wall. The wind was fierce. I had just started to go down the crest running North of the Caisteal Abhail when a couple came up carrying big backpacks (so far I had been the only one, as people seemed to favour short up-and-down day trips while staying in town overnight). The man was tall and strong, so that he managed the wind well, but the woman, some 20 m. behind him, short and skinny, had a real problem to stand up, let alone walk in the mind-blowing wind: at a certain moment she tried to walk on all fours, then to cling to a rock, and then she crawled back, finding shelter behind a cliff. I carried on down and reached the Gleann Easan Biorach, where the usual and expected bogs awaited, but they were not that bad. With winds weaker than above but still strong enough, I pitched the tent on a dry outcrop some 50 m. above the creek and called it a day, a long one as it had been.

The wind rattled all night long with such force in certain gusts that I was close to take off the tent poles so as to avoid their breaking. In the morning, after a refreshing bath in the chilly creek, I walked down and found Lochranza heavenly peaceful: birds chirping, trees in blossom, many flowers around the sleepy houses and only a couple of old ladies walking their dogs: it was Sunday, but the town was not probably much different during the rest of the week. Even the ferry crew got caught up by the serene reverie, so that they started late, but nobody seemed to care, I for sure did not, as I sat down basking in the sun like an adder on a rock. Once in Caonaig, I started walking along the single lane road that crossed serene countryside and a partly forested hill to Kenacraig. More sun to take in, a decent share of Orkney cheddar, a handful of tomatoes and a loaf of sourdough bread to gulp and I got on the Port Askaig-bound ferry, not keen to remain on mainland Scotland for too long, as bucolic as it definitely was. And it would not be the last ferry of the day, as, once in Port Askaig, after a brief – and precisely targeted – visit to the post office opposite the harbour (they stocked some superb brownies which requested special respect, reverence and ultimately attention), I hopped on the small ferry that took me across the Sound of Islay, to Feolin on the Isle of Jura.

As the most of the anyway scarce population on Jura (some 200 permanent inhabitants) was concentrated on the isle’s Eastern coast and the only paved road went that way, the Western part I was interested in was quiet, with a sense of great remoteness generated by the vast grass and bog-covered plains at the foot of the imposing Beinn a Chaolais and Beinn an Òir peaks. Meeting only a couple of cyclists and a few groups of deer on the way, I followed the track that plied the coast and then went uphill until it ended, carrying on up the Allt an t-Sluic Bhrodaich to the two scenic glacial lakes it ran down from. The dark clouds that had piled up over the peaks above broke apart and the evening sun turned everything in gold: the vast grassy fields below, the water of the two lakes, the ridges and scree slopes above. On the other side of the saddle, one could see down all the way to the Sound of Jura. The sense of tranquility, peace and solitude was absolute, as even the wind ceased to blow for a long while and nothing moved.

Three big, round heaps of scree and crumbling rock. This would be a proper definition for the Beinn an Òir, Beinn Shiantaidh, respectively Beinn a Chaolais. The first one was more dramatic with its rocky walls and cliffs, the second one was easier and the last one reminded one at every step of one omnipresent matter: scree. The weather had changed, it was cold and cloudy, which made it excellent for the subsequent ups and downs required by the three peaks divided by low gaps. With its massive peaks and crests, the lack of human presence beyond the coast and its sense of untamed land, Jura was for me one of the, if not the most beautiful of the Hebrides. Following the wide Gleann Astaile downstream and then crossing the extensive bogland, I reached the coast and carried on along tracks across the Dunlossit Estate with its woods and lakes, to the other side where, with the land bordering the minor road fenced off for the use of them sheep, cattle and horses, I camped next to the road, enjoying the fact that next to no car passed along it in the evening or at night, with only sheep and cattle as company and background.

A beautiful, clear sky and even hot day commenced with a one hour walk by the road bordered by farms, patches of forest and sheep grazing enclosures. The scenery changed as I started along Kilennan River, with the typical bog colour, light brown, becoming the norm. When the trail plying the river ended about half the way up to the saddle, I decided to go up the Southern slope instead of going on along the valley that seemed full of bogs and tall grass turning the walking into a slug. Emerging on a secondary crest, the going got much better and, past a lake glittering in the strong sun, I reached the isle’s highest point providing generous views both to the North and South. After a detour to see the coastline from the Beinn Bheigier, I carried on along the crest Northwards. The peaks were quite dramatic, with a lot of scree, some cliffs and plenty of dry shrub, but not as imposing as those on nearby Jura, which were also considerably higher. Except for three silhouettes seen from afar up the Glas Bheinn, I met nobody and by the traces in the often wet ground, it was obvious that deer were by far more frequent a presence than humans. And there were, indeed, dozens of them all around, usually sticking to considerable groups.

Getting closer to inhabited areas and the adjacent enclosures, I pitched the tent in a both idyllically scenic and pragmatically convenient spot, where a couple of streams created fine valleys that, after centuries of sheep grazing, enjoyed now green and short grass, harder ground and minimal bogs. The gate was however locked at the point where a dirt road started carrying on down to Lossit Farm and Lossit Lodge before making its way to Loch Ballygrant. And, while the gate could be avoided through a gap in the enclosure fence, I was not going to sneak in while embracing the Scottish ‘freedom to roam’ rule when the landlord did not wish so, so that this locked gate could turn both idyl and convenience into futile a matter. Yet for the time being I stack to the idyl and my tent came out under a beautiful sunset, respectively with a persistent mountain hen calling out every few minutes.

A grey sky, an intense wind and quite a change from the previous day made my necessary, few kilometer detour welcome, so that I could warm up. I therefore went back up to Loch Fada for a while and then crossed extensive bogs by the enclosure fence to the paved road, trod along it and eventually walked back to Loch Ballygrant in the park-like woods around which the omnipresent yellow flower bushes and tiny blue drops underneath seemed to blossom in the sun that had meanwhile made its way through the clouds. Two ferry rides on, the first of which took 4 hours, and evening saw me in Craignure on the Isle of Mull. And evening bus to Salen where I was the sole passenger with still an hour of daylight or so meant that I could still walk towards the foot of the Ben More. Fine evergreen woods, scenic farms with sheep and deer and, eventually, a place to pitch the tent on a green meadow overlooking the sea: there goes joy.

Looking on the map I had found the usual route up the Ben More rather uninteresting, as it went over a round crest all the way. Therefore I instead chose a longer, harder and more diverse route, starting to go up the Beinn Fhada which was straight-forward but very scenic. Taking over the couple that was ahead, I met nobody all the way to the Ben More. The part I was concerned about, the rugged ridge between the A’Chioch and the Ben More, was easier than expected, with only a few spots, mainly just before the Ben More, where scrambling was required. But both A’Chioch and the Ben More were quite dramatic, with their dark rocky and scree slopes and their standing above all mountains around. Once on the Ben More, I had to backtrack along the same airy ridge to the A’Chioch as I wanted to carry on Eastwards. The descent from A’Chioch was brutal; expectedly, there was no path, but even so, the slope was steep, one had to navigate between rivers of scree and cliffs. While it obviously posed no technical difficulty, it was just tiring for those two feet taking the constant beating. This would actually be a harbinger of the other peaks I was to go up and descend on the other side that day such as the Choir a’Bheinn and the Bheinn a’Mheadhain. Again, there was nobody around save for a few sheep scattered on the highest slopes and in the most impossible places ever. Probably escaped from a farm, they had not seen shearing for a long while so that the wool swept behind them like a period dress. The evening with its soft sun rays found me on the round, easy crest between the Cruachan Beag and the Sgùlan Beag. It looked as if I had meanwhile traveled to another mountain: no cliffs, very little scree, tall grass and, well, bogs, matters I had nearly forgotten in the land of the black rocks up the Ben More. Past the Sgùlan Mòr, I descended lightly by the Allt Dubh and found a beautiful spot to pitch the tent on a tiny grassy outcrop, with the view embracing all Lussa Valley below and the ear enchanted by the creek running through a short gorge nearby. It was a bit windy and cold, while the tent needed some extra work to secure it in that exposed spot, but I wouldn’t have traded that for any cosy chalet.

’Lad, I reckon that seeing you down the Glen, at Ishriff, came as a surprise!’, the massive double decker driver addressed me after passengers alighted at Craignure.

‘Well, yes, I had just come down the hills’.

‘Hahaha, aye, hahaha!’, he said while healthily radiating joy, his face all pink like a Kanzan cherry tree in blossom.

I was just about to ask him whether the way I looked had not been more of a surprise than my merely standing by the single track road in the middle of the partly wooden, partly barren glen many miles from the nearest community. But, as I was to later realize, upon popping into a mirror in Oban, I fit the scenery better like that, in a land where beards and a certain lengthy walking-originated roughness came naturally.

Two days before, a small metal plate placed on a wooden, rest place table on the shore of Loch Ballygrant read ‘A special place where Susan Shaw liked to stop for a rest and a blether on a Timebank walk’, next to a dog paw. I recalled the so many similar plates in Brodick or Craignure to name but two towns with them. Plates dedicated to people and pets alike by those that cherished their memory, eager to express that in a simple, unsophisticated, yet natural way. I now knew why someone had harmed the dog the young man on the Arran-bound ferry had adopted, leaving him with three legs, why he or she had probably also found excitement and pride in that, and why there are many other people doing such miserable things.

‘All these murders, that in ancient (Greek) theatre bore this terrifying and somewhat sublime aura, have turned trivial now. Murder and torture are so straight-forward nowadays, life has got infinitely less value now than it had back then […]. Our existence has greatly corroded, crime has turned banal, it has become a matter to blame, of course, but man is no longer revolted by it, crime no longer defies sacrality as it did in ancient times’, theatre Director David Esrig pointed, to which the TV show host argued:

‘The average Greek walking down the street today might just be more knowledgeable than the average Greek walking down the street back then (in Socrates’ times)’.

‘I am afraid this is not sure.’

‘Even though our audience today knows it all about everything…’, the counter-strike came.

‘What is it that matters: what the audience knows or what the audience experiences, its emotions? Well, from this perspective I doubt mankind has done much progress since then’, Esrig carried on, a big smile illuminating his solar face complete with abundant white, brush-like hair and beard.

‘It is only death that man will probably be unable to defeat, but otherwise how much do you think we shall be able to extend our lifetime?’

‘My dear, the matter is how much we shall be able to extend our happiness. I am not confident that a longer life automatically implies a greater happiness. […] What matters to me is the value, and not the length one’s life has’, the director concluded in his typical manner, the emphasis progressively growing until reaching the climax with the final word he rolled out with a wink noticeable as it was through his thick lens glasses.