This was originally written in June 2002. My friend R. and I went up North, where we stayed in a teepee made by Carin, a Scandinavian woman who was living in Scotland with her partner, Paul.
Near Balmoral, Scotland
June 2002
I am wearing sandals, but not for long, and already regretting it.
I’ve written “Walking with Respect” as that’s what you do when you’re wearing sandals, and you’re on land used by goats, guinea fowl, hens, Border Collies (Parch and Marge, both rescue dogs), a cat (Dos, short for Disorganised System), a peacock. Also, it’s clear there are rabbits about.
When the peacock calls, especially at night, it sounds like the voice of the dead, calling across time, and space. The guinea fowl makes a sound like a hand saw, and can be about as insistent as a car alarm.
People don’t lock their doors around here, for there’s rarely anyone else about. Except for the fowl, and the additional shot firing sound (which is actually a kind of scarecrow, according to Carin), there’s very little sound except for the birds. Voices carry, as I found on the camp at Masham, year before last.
I’m sitting at a picnic table outside our teepee. The wind has just picked up, and I can smell the charcoal on the BBQ which R has just started. The table was wet this morning, but is finally dry enough to sit, and write at.
A small green spider is slowly walking up my hand.
The peacock gets about a bit. (The peahen, however, hasn’t been seen for around a month, and is presumed to be nesting.) This morning at 3 am, he was sitting on “his” wall near the house, and outbuildings. A few minutes ago, he was following Paul (Carin’s partner) as Paul dragged some wood to the smithy.
Carin is Scandinavian. Paul is from Leeds. Their young son Ossian was born in Scotland, on the laird’s estate.
R. and I met the Queen’s Waller (for Scotland; she has another at Sandringham). Around here they are referred to as dry stain (stone) dykes, Norman, the waller, is around 60, and was repairing a wall at the bottom of the approach to Craithie Church. It’s part of the Balmoral Estate, but on this occasion Norman was walling for a lady who lives at the top of the hill. He was working with two woman of around the same age, and got talking to them after they asked us to take pictures of themselves with the wall they had just spent two days repairing.
Norman was a chemist (specifically, microbiologist) who was made redundant from BP, and used his redundancy money to set up a croft shop. He loved that shop, but it didn’t make enough money to support a family. He did a two week long course, and now he’s the Queen’s Waller, and runs two day long courses himself.
I wrote the phrase “walking with respect” as that’s what you do if you’re reasonably sensible, and you’re walking in the countryside in sandals. Huge, shoe-sized slicks of sheep shit are every few yards, and look almost shiny at times, rather like aluminium, or the metal rooves you sometimes see on (American) barns, and outbuildings. Other, similar sized collections of pooh are an off-white colour. I suspect it’s down to the age of the droppings, but which is which: which the older, and which the fresher?
The peacock appeared to be herding the guinea fowl at one point.
Last night I went for a solitary walk in the woods, trying to connect with the trees. I called on the help of birch, and pine, as there is a lot of both, and I couldn’t see much of any others. All of the trees are mostly covered with a sort of white, furry lichen. Carin told R. it’s a sign of clean air. There are a lot of what looks like light green clover under foot, and occasionally a white flower, fairly small, with six petals. Also, what looks like birch trunks with rowan leaves and flowers.
The rest of our stay at the laird’s estate included a trip to Balmoral itself; to a shop which sells hand made Native American artifacts; a stone circle which was created a mere century ago or so, and to see the Native American style objects which Carin made from local road kill, of which there is rather a lot. Both R. and I were fascinated by Carin’s art. According to Carin, it’s not unusual for vegetarians to be so calmly interested in her work, as opposed to meat eaters, who are often rather squeamish.
As I type this, 21 years later, I’m looked on by a small statue of a flute player who is covered by little children: the figure of the story teller. I hope you enjoyed my story, and I hope that some day, I will return there.
sheila north 