Authors: Gordon Mackay
With his impending arrival on the island, as he drove across the new bridge, it began to rain. “Welcome back to soggy Skye,” he sarcastically muttered under his breath to himself. He headed north, overtaking the slow tourists with their badly packed and snaking caravans. He recalled seeing a particularly badly packed van manoeuvre itself onto one of its two wheels, eventually tumbling over into splinters of matchwood and metallic debris
and scattering clothing as it careered down the road on one side then upside down behind its pirouetting 4x4 Land Rover. He learned from that horrible sight to avoid this kind of swerving and swaying van, paying attention to the frequency and angle of its wobble. The quicker it oscillated the greater the chance it was going to flip-over, he recognised.
Streaking up the road leaving a cloud of spray behind him, with hardly a murmur from the exhausts, the rain soon gave way to sunshine again. He had a good idea where he was heading, an area close to the sea and not far from a working quarry. If he could locate a suitable pitch for his tent and a safe haven for the bike he would be more than happy.
Turning off the main highway, where a slightly leaning signpost indicated the village called, Moll, was only 3 miles away, and another village called, Sconser was 6. The bike’s tyres skidded on loose stones and gravel with his sudden change in direction. Scott’s quick reflexes had to react accordingly to maintain his balance and road-holding, sticking out a leg to help maintain stability like an experienced speedway rider until his machine attained a straight line. The elderly road was the final stretch of the drive for that day and Scott found it was taking longer to travel these last few miles than it had for the past fifty. There were questionable areas where light found it hard to penetrate and shadows were very dark. A long tunnel of thick and overgrown branches encroached his way along the narrow single carriageway, with green fingers of curling foliage hanging downwards like some monster’s stinging tendrils, poised and waiting for an unsuspecting stray motorcyclist or pedestrian to chance by. This most ancient of roads had been superseded by a much more modern hill-climbing route, which cut and wound its way through and around high walls of solid rock. Several very steep inclines and sharp bends had to be negotiated by everyone who used the alternative route, all taking pleasure from the exhilarating views afforded by the highest of passes. The modern vehicle could manage these hills and curves without any trouble, while the original meandering road was all but forgotten about; except by the intrepid or romantic traveller who desired to follow a more scenic and adventurous track. Some stretches had acquired some painfully deep holes, deep enough to break the suspension of some vehicles and scrape the plating from the exhaust pipe. A few had been crudely filled-in with loose rubble as a stopgap measure, but plenty more work had yet to be done. A temporary repair like this would suffice for only a short time on this type of road, with torrents of precipitation soon washing the infill away. Bordering the road were tree-high thickets of whin bushes, their unusually long curved branches bending like archers bows under their own weight. They met and supported members of the same family across the middle of the road, holding onto their opposites with acrobat-like hands, forming a swaying arch in the breeze.
On more than just a few occasions, Scott had to duck his head to miss the dark overhead forest from time to time, enjoying the playful challenge while wondering with trepidation if there might possibly be another vehicle driving towards him while he momentary turned his gaze downwards to avoid the suspended hedge-like barrier. He hoped his bike’s paintwork wouldn’t suffer from scratches as he forced his way through this wild and unkempt greenery.
Once finally past the burden of heavy bushes and trees, the countryside gave way to glorious open scenery. With the dark-green sea and coast on his right, and a steep purple-coloured heathery climb on his left, he began to enjoy the view. He followed the curvature of the headland, always bearing to his left, when the ferry to the Isle of Raasay on one of its frequent sailings came into view. Enjoying the sight of the sea-going vessel leaving its frothing white wake, with the mountains all around and beyond, he pulled over to the road’s edge and stopped. With his gloves and helmet removed, he was completely taken aback by the peacefulness of his surroundings, save for the genteel melodic birdsong and slight rustle of wind through the short and thorny wild-rose bushes growing alongside the road’s course verge. The peace and quiet was music to his ears and he loved every lengthy and hanging orchestral note. Stepping away from the bike to get a better view of the ferry as it pushed its way through the cold and forbidding looking water he chanced upon what appeared to be the perfect place to camp. It was just a few metres from the road’s edge, down a steep incline, and if he hadn’t stopped at this exact spot he would have completely missed it. He quickly carried out a reconnaissance of the immediate area, acting in a concerted military fashion. He was trying to find a way down for his Triumph, picking his way through the undergrowth and bushes. He was ever so pleased when he discovered the overgrown remains of what had once been a track. It was almost completely hidden, a road where no wheels had left their mark or tread for many a year or perhaps a century or two. After carefully pacing-out his route, snapping a few twigs and branches that might impede his route, he figured his bike could get safely down. He would worry about the return drive back up to the road when he eventually had to do it. He was quietly confident he was experienced enough and his bike more than capable of the effort required.
With the tent successfully erected and the bike parked neatly beside it, he set off to explore his new surroundings. There was a small cove between his campsite
where the water softly lapped the rocky and pebble strewn edge, making the entire scene perfectly idyllic. There was a mixture of large boulders and smaller stones, all frequently washed by the regular tides. He spotted and gathered the few bits of washed-up timber that lay lodged and stranded between the rocks, sometimes straining to break them loose. Some were a bit too large to carry with the others, so they were left in situ until later. It was during his search for wood when he happened to come across an outcrop of mussels, all clinging to immovable rocks where waves frequently splashed against their barnacle-encrusted shells.
“Aha”, he said, “wood for a fire and mussels for a meal tonight.”
Raising his line of sight, he spotted the red and white Caledonian MacBrayne ferry making its return journey from the island. Some passengers could be seen standing on the upper-decks, with the brightest colours of their fashionable and expensive anoraks standing out against the much darker background. He fancied the idea of visiting the Isle of Raasay, if he ever got the chance, already knowing the fare of his bike would be much less than that of a car. He would check his geology maps to determine whether there might be fossil-bearing strata over on the isle before deciding if he would go. His mind was set on locating fossils and saving them for posterity. He knew their ultimate destruction by wave-action and erosion was assured, with any interesting or rare specimens being lost forever. Unless they were collected and saved by responsible people, such as him, no one would ever know of their once-upon-a-time and brief existence. He wasn’t in the business of making money from the few examples he found and saved, and deplored any who did. He wanted to save them because they represented another time, a period long before humankind’s destructive appearance. Looking about him once again, he began to gather the pieces of wood that could be carried. It quickly dawned on him the tide had turned and was beginning to drown the areas where he had recently strolled. With the shocking realisation of his proposed supper disappearing beneath the water for at least another 12 hours, he scampered back up the slope to his campsite. After dropping the collected wood, he hastily returned to the slippery rocks where the mussels waited for the returning waves and suspended nutrients. While holding an aluminium billycan in one hand, he began to select the largest of the shells he could still reach with the other. He felt he could almost taste the morsels of shellfish already and practically licked his lips at the gourmet thought.
With enough mussels to fill the can, and enough wood to last for a few days, Scott was confident his stay would be even better than he imagined. His earlier recce had located a small stream nearby, a trickle-sounding flow through dense undergrowth. Whenever he searched for water from a stream he would always remember a few words of wisdom from his late father. There had never been many from him, so the few he heard he tended to remember. His father had fought in Malaya during the insurgency following the cessation of World War II and armed rebels had waged a guerrilla-type war on the western-backed government and British army. His father’s more than picturesque words had left an indelible mark on a young Scott’s mind as he’d conjured a terrible picture of the well-described events.
As an infantryman in the Scots Guards, he had been soldiering among some Malayan jungle foothills. He was one of a squad who had come across a quickly flowing stream; and with their water bottles almost empty they were filled. After drinking a hearty amount, the squad set off again, continuing their mission. Cautiously heading upstream, always aware of a possible attack, they eventually came across a clearing where a battle had previously taken place. The stinking site was littered with corpses, quickly bloated and blackened by the jungle’s heat and humidity. Severed limbs lay scattered around the blood-soaked site, forced from their owners by explosions and ripping shrapnel. A black haze of flies practically blotted-out the overhead sunshine; while a moving mass of maggots crawled everywhere like a living carpet, giving the unbelievable scene a sense of perpetual motion. The wriggling bugs were dropping off the corpses by the thousand, falling into the fast flowing water as it sped by before being carried downstream. With the fresh memory of drinking from the same water a short way down the gentle-sloping valley, the small group of soldiers emptied their heaving stomach’s, puking everything they had drank and eaten within the last twelve hours or so. “Always check up-stream for some considerable distance before you take water from any flowing source,” was actively encouraged. Scott knew this was a sensible approach to surviving in the wilderness and religiously carried-out that advice. Having checked upstream, with nothing found lying dead or tainting the water in any way, he felt satisfied. Returning to his makeshift home, he filled the pot with fresh island water from the same burn. The picture of dead bodies lying rotting in his memory had never left him in all the years since he’d heard the story. He shuddered at the thought, as always, then forgot it until the next time he needed more water.
“This is perfect,” he quietly announced
to no one in particular. The view was breathtaking and the air was fresh. The sun was still high and the earth was warm. This was his kind of vacation, one where he could indulge himself with his own kind of eccentricity. He had a roof over his head, flimsy though it was, and fresh mussels to dine on. With all that combined with the bottle of cheap wine and cans of beer to wash the entire meal down with, he felt immensely cheerful. If he was still hungry after the succulent seafood dish there were tins of soup and packets of dried pasta as backup, all easily made and quite filling. He did have some fresh water in a large bottle, but that was strictly for drinking only. The mussels would be boiled for at least ten minutes so any bacteria in the water should be neutralised. He wasn’t going to directly drink the water from the stream so he should be all right, he inwardly accepted. The last thing he wanted was to become ill in the middle of nowhere with no one around to help him. He guessed he was already taking some chances by eating the shellfish so why take any more.
The fire was lit with makeshift kindling. This was made by dropping boulders from shoulder-height on to the larger pieces of driftwood, shattering and snapping them with loud
snaps and cracks into smaller shards of splinter. The billycan was evenly balanced on the burning logs and the water soon began to steam. The outside of the aluminium pot turned black with soot, hiding the clean silver colour with something akin to matt. A few clear streaks appeared where boiling water cascaded over the edge, dripping slight rivulets through the blackened mire. There was some scum as the bubbling water produced a creamy coloured froth, occasionally spilling over into the licking flames with a steaming hiss of anger. Scott was confident he would enjoy this dish and the wine would serve to compliment it. “Mmm,” he murmured gently, as he gazed into the smoke as he fancied the sea-fresh smell of the boiling dish. He wished he’d packed some garlic butter with the rest of the cooking equipment, but he couldn’t be expected to take everything for every possible occasion, he reconsidered. The smoke would sometimes steer itself towards him, with Scott altering his position beside the fire to suit. It was only after the sun had begun to reach towards the hilltop’s horizon the dreaded midge insect made an appearance. Scott manoeuvred himself back into a position where he was at the edge of the smoke in the hope it would keep the little biting bleeders at bay. As long as he could keep the fire burning he would have a bite free night, he hoped.
As he bit into the first cooked mussel, he almost broke a tooth. After venomously spitting out his first mouthful of partially chewed shellfish, he released a loud, “Bloody hell!” He angrily exclaimed with an additional oath. “They’re full of bloody stones!”
Like a giant inspecting his food before it disappeared into his hungry belly, he turned his attention to the next mussel, pulling it apart even though it burned his fingers. He discovered several small objects; all very silvery and resembling little pearls reflecting what light remained from the quickly fading day. They were all round and shiny, with hints of blues, browns and silver. He realised he couldn’t eat any of this meal from the sea as he failed to remove the little shining orbs by hand. There were far too many of the little devils to extract. He only had so many teeth and wanted to keep what he had.
So that was jolly well that!
He frustratingly thought. A hungry Scott would have to settle for soup after all. A tin of tasty minestrone was hurriedly opened and unceremoniously positioned onto the still burning embers. With curiosity, he removed some of the small pearl-looking culprits and deposited them into a plastic bag for safekeeping. His plan was to show them to his family and anyone else who showed an interest. He considered, it wouldn’t just be fossils he would take home to impress family and friends with.