Thursday 28 February 2008


Maybe I am a wee bit odd, however, sitting here in my dog kennel size flat, re, shoe box mk 1, I have been sorting gear out. This is stuff that was used on my last trip away. The flat, being so tiny, affords little room for hanging equipment up to dry and air. This may sound terribly untidy but everything gets sorted right in the middle of my room. A by product of this is bits of grass leaves, twigs etc all over the floor. They hold memories though, reminders of a wild camp. Those bits of grass and pine needles of a camp under a friendly old Scots pine. The leaves from when I pitched, bone weary, in a small copse, glad to get the tent up and sink down on the soft floor of grass and leaves with a welcombe mug of hot soup. Pheasants cackling around me, the wind soughing in the trees, water lapping on the loch shore. With a smile I gently hold a leaf and remember. These are places I came quietly to, a traveller moving through, stopping briefly overnight and moving on. No one knows of my passing, there is no sign, no trace that I have ever been that way. Only I know and they remain in my memories.

1 comment:

  1. I think there's a cutting poignancy to such memories, that are grounded in happy times we want to remember and hold on to.

    But like butterflies, we can't; it's comforting and fun though to reminisce and remember with whatever means we have: a twig, a photograph, mud on boots we haven't yet cleaned, taking me back for fond seconds to a place and moment of outdoor happiness.