by Hilary Jocelyn
Sometimes, the thought crosses my mind that maybe it’s just as well Scotland has no trees. Well, almost none. I mean they do make a half-assed attempt to plant something I suppose you could call a forest, on the hillsides now and then, but that’s just so they can cut it down a quarter of a century later, to make paper and toilet tissue, and other essential things, out of the pulp.
Apparently, back in the day, there did used to be lots of trees dotting the Scottish landscape, but many of them were brutally hacked down so they could be used as lumber to build ships for various wars and suchlike. And then the Landowners discovered the profitability of sheep, who would eat almost anything that poked up from the damp northern soil, including young trees. After all, they thought, who needs trees when you can eat lamb?
I have just come back from a visit to my favourite island that sits parked off the West coast of Scotland. If you wander around this spot of unchallenged beauty, I assure you that you can probably count the number of trees you will stumble across, on your fingers and on your pretty wee toes.
So now I have set the scene, I will get on with my story.
The plan was that I would spend the night with my very dear and oldest friend, who I have known since the tender age of 11. I still remember the day she walked hesitantly into the packed classroom of the local primary school one Monday morning, where she was introduced to us as “ the new girl”. Some of the other kids snickered out loud right away, while others smirked across the room, because, you see, she was wearing the wrong school uniform. Whoops! The Poor Wee Soul was wearing a blue skirt instead of a maroon one, and a shirt and tie instead of a tee shirt. Someone had made a big mistake. At her expense. Giggles spun around the gloomy classroom, but I caught her eye and saw, in spite of her crushing humiliation, a spirit of resistance and nonconformity that kind of mirrored mine, and we became fast and lifelong friends.
But that was many decades ago, and I will skip some of the in-between bits that describe the details of the many adventures we have shared together over the years. About her, romantically marrying the postman on this tiny Scottish island, and living with him in a rusty trailer that was parked along the wild seashore with their two increasingly rambunctious wee boys. About me, moving across the Atlantic Ocean to Canada, where slowly, but oh, so very slowly, it became my new home. About us, always getting together on my regular return trips back to Scotland. About her, leaving the island after 25 years of living there. About us again, and the fact that even though we don’t get to see each other as often as we would like, when we do get together, it’s as if we had never been apart.
But ..to get back to my story and the plan.
We were going to have a glorious reunion at her current home just south of the Scottish borders and travel up at our leisure, to our beloved island the very next day. Her boys and their families still lived there, but we planned to camp in a soggy field in the middle of the island. Well, to be more accurate, we planned to “glamp” in a wooden structure that was about the size of a large tent, but with a mattress-strewn floor, and most importantly, a roof. It was after all October, and we were, after all, in the infamous land of the damp.
We met at the station in her hometown, and hugged delightedly and breathtakingly, noticing as we did so the small external changes we found in each other, since we had last met a year and a half ago. A few added lines and wrinkles, a pound or two gained or lost, and hair that was longer, shorter, and maybe a tad greyer around the edges. As this initial railway platform reunion was playing out, however, she said to me in the midst of an embrace, “Storm Agnes is going to hit the island tomorrow, and when it comes, there probably won’t be any ferry crossings for a few days. If we want to get there, we need to go right now!”
I am no stranger to the changing of plans, so we threw my battered suitcase in her hopefully-it-was going-to-get-us-there car, and promptly set off excitedly on the long and winding three-hour or more road up to the West Coast of Scotland, trying to move faster than the storm that was reportedly barking at our heels.
It was enthralling. It was just the way I like it.
We drove past the city of Glasgow and met gangs of tardy commuters who were trying to return to their homes, and who had ended up lined tail to tail, with others in the same boat. After an hour or more of moving bumper to bumper through the Glaswegian wind and rain, we progressed towards the banks of the renowned Loch Lomond. As a child, we used to visit this area frequently, and my dad, depending on his mood, might regale us in his baritone singing voice with the patriotic words of the infamous song that dates back well into the 1700s. In memorium of these times gone by, we sang loudly out of the car window into the threatening storm.
“And I’ll tak the high road and you’ll tak the low road and I’ll be in Scotland afore ye, as me and my true love will never meet again on the bonnie bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.”
The wind was beginning to rise up, and we could feel its power pounding against the car as we plunged along in the now almost duskiness. Heavy and ominous clouds were hovering over the mountain tops as we cruised around the Loch. We then chugged up into a looming mountain pass called ‘Rest and Be Thankful’. We didn’t rest, but we were thankful: for the beauty around us, for our enduring friendship, and for the joy of being on such an adventure. I spied my favourite summit called the Cobbler (because someone once said it looked like a boot; although I could never see the resemblance) peaking down on us in the evening glow. I waved to it, remembering fondly the many varied and interesting ascents up its rocky slopes I had embarked on, in times gone by.
But we had other things on our minds. We were hungry! In our haste to leave and to beat the storm food had been low on our priority list, but now as the evening rolled on, we were tummy rumbling in unison. “There’s a fish ‘n chip shop in the next village,” my companion said hopefully … But of course, it was closed. A Tuesday night, out of season, when all the tourists had by now gone home, did not bode very well for our empty bellies, and we encountered several darkened shop doorways and closed-up cafes in the few, and far between, remote villages that we passed along the route. Eventually, we did find a tiny shop that specialized in cigarettes and beer, and so finally our hunger pangs quietened as we happily tucked into a packet of stale cheese and onion crackers, which hit the spot… sort of.
Empowered by the grease and calories, we finally made it to the port town of Oban, where we grabbed a few hours sleep on the couch of a well-meaning and distant relative. Before the light hovered on the horizon the next morning, we were at the pier, hoping that the boat would actually sail. Yeah! The engines rumbled into action and off we set, bumping heavily over the swirling waves. By this time, I was seriously interested in the cafeteria, but it was not easy slurping down a cup of tea, or gobbling up some breakfast when the boat was heaving and keeling to each and every side. Later, we stood out on the deck, loving every unstable moment, as we watched porpoises dance joyfully in the swelling water. But we knew we were not out of the woods yet. The wind was seriously picking up, and once we disembarked, we had to still drive an hour or two further, across this larger remote island, before catching a much smaller ferryboat, over a very wild, stormy, and temperamental stretch of the Scottish sea.
So, now is a good time for me to go back to my earlier reflection about the lack of trees in Scotland. The bottom line is really, that if there had been trees, they would, most likely, have all blown down by now. Due to climate change, the winds are getting stronger, and the vicious storms more regular. Think of the storms that have recently hit our own neighbourhood here in the Hills; the Derecho, various tail ends of various Hurricanes, and lots more. And yes, they cause brutal damage, and we experience power cuts, trees falling on roads, and sometimes on people, the destruction of entire neighbourhoods, and much more. But here, the impact of Scotland’s frequently unstable stormy weather is different, because there are very few trees left to fall down and crush whatever lies in their way.
We drove foot to the floor on the single-track road. Storm Agnes was definitely gathering in might, and the atmosphere felt ominously threatening, but also somehow exhilaratingly enthralling. Even the sheep wandering around on the road seemed to have trouble staying upright. We finally got to the second ferry, and saw it trying to land, which was a bit of a challenge, but the experienced crew were far more used to bad weather than to calm seas, so we knew they would try to make one last crossing before Agnes summoned up enough power to interfere with their sailing. The boat landed finally, and a few shaken tourists wobbled off, while we delightedly clambered on. We could now see our destination beckoning across the narrow strip of unruly water. The boat had to fight with the vicious currents and the dominant wave crests, so we went slowly, swirling around somewhat in the brewing storm.
Finally, we arrived and disembarked, dodging the waves as they lashed at the jetty and engulfed our feet in their icy wetness. But we didn’t care. We had arrived finally, bringing the eye of the storm with us, and as we walked along the familiar village street, we had to bend double to brace ourselves against Agnes’s powerful swipes, which I was sure would eventually blow my tangled mass of hair, right off the top of my head.
There were no more boats for three days.
And eventually no power.
And all of the six trees on the island remained standing.
Wandering Wakefield 