Day...40? have no idea anymore..
Day 35 - Tim in a Cave
Leaving Carsaig, I was full of adrenalin.
Staying in the one place for such a long time was such an alien thing for me at the moment. So packing up for the next destination, the energy was pumping through my veins. There was also a touch of sadness. Departing the place that provided absolute perfection, in possibly the most important two and a half weeks of my life.
My next night was spent in a damp, mossy, dripping cave on the way to Lochbuie, still on the Isle of Mull. Before taking the first step toward my new home my mind and heart were racing with new ideas and possible directions to take this adventure. Considering that it had developed and evolved so freely over the past five weeks or so, I was definately waking each day with a very open mind as to where I could take it...or more acurately, where it to take me.
The public response I got from the hundreds of people who saw the beach being cleaned and supported both the fundraiser and the beach, by supporting me, was incredible. Totally unexpected. So I took this as a positive omen when making the decision that the fundraiser from this point on will be purely focused around cleaning up the coastline of Scotland. Making this decision was difficult as I hold so dearly the life in the slow lane. Step by step. Gradually taking in each ridge and every stream. So the last seven miles before I stuck out my thumb were savoured. I get little to no response while I am on the road walking at three miles an hour picking up as much rubbish as I can carry, and not even making a dent on what is there. Cleaning a beach for a week or two makes a massive difference to peoples' mind-set who visit and witness the sands or stones beneath the synthetic asphixiation. So, getting from beach to beach as fast as possible is important. The more places I can clean, the larger the reaction will be. Resulting in more support for my fundraiser. Which equates to the most possible sponsorships supplied for the conservation courses that Frontier operate. Which is the main goal. Education in Environmental Conservation.
Back to the damp, mossy, dripping cave....
When I went to collect some firewood which wasn't soaked by the first rains sice I set up camp at Carsaig, my attention was drawn toward a white bundle of fur in amongst the rocky beach outlay. The attention of this little white ball of fur was also directed toward me. As it staggered to its' feet I realised why it reacted with delay and not with the normal sheep.."...panic!!!!! run!!!!!" It had obviously taken a fall and broken both its' front and back left legs. It had been there for quite some time, it was easy to tell by its' lack of motivation to scamper. I decided to leave it be for a time while I retreated to my cave (how neandertal does that sound?) to decide what to do with the lame lamb who was destined to starve to death on the barren beach.
An hour or so later I returned to find it twitching in its last moments of struggle. I apporached it without hesitation and sat down next to it. There was a moment of recignition of my presence but nothing more. I realised at that momnet that I was emotionless toward the act that society had taught me to perform in such a situation. I decided at that moment thatif I felt nothing, I was never going to do it. This was the third animal in two days that was in its last moments of life at an early stage of adolescence. (The last being a small bird who had deformed legs who had fallen on its first attempt to fly. I attempted to train the wee one to fly for a good hour or so before letting it be to its' parents who were watching curiously from a branch.)
So I gathered the wee lamb in my arms and took it into my cave where I found a small patch of ferns to place it under in comfort and silence away from the plume of smoke bellowing from my damp wood. The was no life fighting at all. It had given up. Until it sniffed the fern above. Upon it first small mouthful ground into the pulp digestable by the herbavore, it bounced up, well unbalanced by its' favoured, or more so 'only' able side.
I sat, rolled a cigarette and watched it come to life, even though it could not leave my cave it had found some determination to survive, and occassionally looked up to check on the figure who had brought it to this smokey hole in the wall. I fell asplepp with the midgie net over my face, sleeping bag tightly drawn with this image of hope and survival. My aim was to carry it the remainging three miles to Lochbuie and put it in the care of a farmer there. When I woke, the realisation that any farmer has removed the sympathy toward a lame "product" and would slaughter it for sure. So when I scaled the slippery high tide smashed rock face it had fallen down the next morning, lamb in hands, pack on back, my motivation was directed toward finding its' mother. I did not, but I did find some sheep, who took no real notice of ti in their company, but at least it can sit there amongst its' likeness, eat a plenty for the coming days and weeks until it was healthy enough to be a sheep and follow the masses.
The point of this elongated story of struggle is that when I was sitting sipping tea with a Tinkers collecting winkles, his response to me was .... "you found a lame lamb..throw the fucker in the sea!"
The 'Clearances' in Scotland took place about 200 yrs ago, when the English forced Scottish families from their multi-generational homes, took the land and morter and turned it into aheep farming land. And when the coats of sheep are collecting 10p per year, per sheep, they can't quite understand why they are still around.....
aside from the government subsidies for sheep and highland cow farmers. Not pig or normal cattle though... ???
tim out.
Leaving Carsaig, I was full of adrenalin.
Staying in the one place for such a long time was such an alien thing for me at the moment. So packing up for the next destination, the energy was pumping through my veins. There was also a touch of sadness. Departing the place that provided absolute perfection, in possibly the most important two and a half weeks of my life.
My next night was spent in a damp, mossy, dripping cave on the way to Lochbuie, still on the Isle of Mull. Before taking the first step toward my new home my mind and heart were racing with new ideas and possible directions to take this adventure. Considering that it had developed and evolved so freely over the past five weeks or so, I was definately waking each day with a very open mind as to where I could take it...or more acurately, where it to take me.
The public response I got from the hundreds of people who saw the beach being cleaned and supported both the fundraiser and the beach, by supporting me, was incredible. Totally unexpected. So I took this as a positive omen when making the decision that the fundraiser from this point on will be purely focused around cleaning up the coastline of Scotland. Making this decision was difficult as I hold so dearly the life in the slow lane. Step by step. Gradually taking in each ridge and every stream. So the last seven miles before I stuck out my thumb were savoured. I get little to no response while I am on the road walking at three miles an hour picking up as much rubbish as I can carry, and not even making a dent on what is there. Cleaning a beach for a week or two makes a massive difference to peoples' mind-set who visit and witness the sands or stones beneath the synthetic asphixiation. So, getting from beach to beach as fast as possible is important. The more places I can clean, the larger the reaction will be. Resulting in more support for my fundraiser. Which equates to the most possible sponsorships supplied for the conservation courses that Frontier operate. Which is the main goal. Education in Environmental Conservation.
Back to the damp, mossy, dripping cave....
When I went to collect some firewood which wasn't soaked by the first rains sice I set up camp at Carsaig, my attention was drawn toward a white bundle of fur in amongst the rocky beach outlay. The attention of this little white ball of fur was also directed toward me. As it staggered to its' feet I realised why it reacted with delay and not with the normal sheep.."...panic!!!!! run!!!!!" It had obviously taken a fall and broken both its' front and back left legs. It had been there for quite some time, it was easy to tell by its' lack of motivation to scamper. I decided to leave it be for a time while I retreated to my cave (how neandertal does that sound?) to decide what to do with the lame lamb who was destined to starve to death on the barren beach.
An hour or so later I returned to find it twitching in its last moments of struggle. I apporached it without hesitation and sat down next to it. There was a moment of recignition of my presence but nothing more. I realised at that momnet that I was emotionless toward the act that society had taught me to perform in such a situation. I decided at that moment thatif I felt nothing, I was never going to do it. This was the third animal in two days that was in its last moments of life at an early stage of adolescence. (The last being a small bird who had deformed legs who had fallen on its first attempt to fly. I attempted to train the wee one to fly for a good hour or so before letting it be to its' parents who were watching curiously from a branch.)
So I gathered the wee lamb in my arms and took it into my cave where I found a small patch of ferns to place it under in comfort and silence away from the plume of smoke bellowing from my damp wood. The was no life fighting at all. It had given up. Until it sniffed the fern above. Upon it first small mouthful ground into the pulp digestable by the herbavore, it bounced up, well unbalanced by its' favoured, or more so 'only' able side.
I sat, rolled a cigarette and watched it come to life, even though it could not leave my cave it had found some determination to survive, and occassionally looked up to check on the figure who had brought it to this smokey hole in the wall. I fell asplepp with the midgie net over my face, sleeping bag tightly drawn with this image of hope and survival. My aim was to carry it the remainging three miles to Lochbuie and put it in the care of a farmer there. When I woke, the realisation that any farmer has removed the sympathy toward a lame "product" and would slaughter it for sure. So when I scaled the slippery high tide smashed rock face it had fallen down the next morning, lamb in hands, pack on back, my motivation was directed toward finding its' mother. I did not, but I did find some sheep, who took no real notice of ti in their company, but at least it can sit there amongst its' likeness, eat a plenty for the coming days and weeks until it was healthy enough to be a sheep and follow the masses.
The point of this elongated story of struggle is that when I was sitting sipping tea with a Tinkers collecting winkles, his response to me was .... "you found a lame lamb..throw the fucker in the sea!"
The 'Clearances' in Scotland took place about 200 yrs ago, when the English forced Scottish families from their multi-generational homes, took the land and morter and turned it into aheep farming land. And when the coats of sheep are collecting 10p per year, per sheep, they can't quite understand why they are still around.....
aside from the government subsidies for sheep and highland cow farmers. Not pig or normal cattle though... ???
tim out.
writes somewhereinscotland at 8:54 pm
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