Vagabonds and Volunteers

Vagabonds and volunteers; vagrants, voracious in their appetite for adventure and naturally curious as if they were iron filings drawn to some huge, beautiful and deeply profound magnet. In this case, Berneray was the magnet and I was amongst the helpless filings unknowingly under the spell. It’s a curious place, Berneray, gob-smackingly wild and remote yet strangely comforting, almost homely; it’s captivating – a precious jewel sat atop the majestic Hebridean crown. Time seems to stand still there – the pace of life is much slower, and the hostel looks the same today as it would have done over a hundred years ago; it’s quaint, small in stature but unapologetic in presence. It’s welcoming; teeming with life, kindred spirits from across the globe, sat around the log fire, sharing anecdotes of far-off places, each of them entranced, each of them harbouring plans to return.

Ryvoan

The air was cold; it rushed through my nostrils forming tiny ice-crystals amongst the net-like hairs before plummeting finally into the depths of my lungs. The landscape was unrecognisable. I sat down in the snow which formed around my body, creating a cold, but very comfortable chair. Silently I began to observe, I began to listen; my senses were heightened and I absorbed everything, every sound; every smell, nothing went unnoticed. The Green Loch lay frozen behind me, covered by a foot of snow that twinkled most spectacularly in the late-afternoon light and the Scots Pines stood still, just as they had done for centuries. I was temporarily alone and grateful for it.

The sun fell a bit further, edging ever closer to the southwest horizon where it would eventually disappear, banishing this beautiful land to darkness and even colder temperatures until the morning. Of course, I would not be there when it did, I was merely a temporary visitor, who, like all the others, would return home once their memory cards were full or they became cold. There was however, evidence all around that there were more permanent creatures that patrolled this place.

One of my companions had now caught me up. He stopped for a moment and asked if I was ready to continue. I wasn’t ready. I told him I would wait for the others and walk back with them. He was happy with this and carried on towards the van. I knew I didn’t have long left until I too would have to leave and so I concentrated hard on the scene before me, doing everything I could to perpetuate the moment in my own mind.

My time was up and the others arrived. They were dragging their rucksacks on their snowboards along the path that had been trodden in the snow. It was with a sense of melancholy that I stood up and turned my back on my icy throne which now acted as a legacy to the beauty of that profound moment.

I took one last glance up at the snowy mountains which were glowing gold beneath the setting sun. I was contented. I then followed the others and left Ryvoan behind.

Paradise

Unfortunately I’m in Paradise by Peter Clark

A great expanse of golden sand, and turquoise water pure and deep,

The yellow sun lights the land, as the tanned people fall asleep,

It is truly beautiful, everything so nice,

A sight to behold, I am surely in paradise,

A palm tree dances elegantly, as a gentle breeze meanders by,

Loud music invades violently, as a nightclub opens for the night,

The sun begins to set, as a drunk girl shouts out twice,

It would be easy to forget, that I’m in paradise,

They come in their hundreds, it’s time for me to leave,

Alcoholic thoroughbreds, this is no place for me,

I break in to a run, this will not suffice,

I find myself saddened, and alone in paradise,

The Ayas Hut

Just over three years ago my brother and I went climbing in the Swiss Alps for the first time. The following story is a short recollection of my first experience of altitude sickness in a small mountain hut high up on the Swiss/Italian border. I have had a go at using dialogue in this piece as this was something we discussed in a recent lecture. I hope you enjoy it.

I felt rough, really rough! It turns out altitude sickness is actually real. “It’s definitely bedtime”, I announced to the group but they all seemed too intoxicated to pay any notice. That’s the trouble with charging less money for beer than for water I thought to myself. Oh well, too ill to care! Crazy Italians.

I woke up the next morning at the time agreed; the headache hit me like a high speed train and I let out a series of groans that eventually culminated in a loud but not so coherent “GOOD GOD”. My brother responded by slurring the words “You OK man?”. “What do you think”, I muttered under my breath, secretly grateful for his concern, “How are you?”, I enquired. “Oh, so-so” came his response. I continued to question him, “You excited about today?”.  He hesitated for a few seconds before managing to muster up an unenthusiastic, “Yeh”. I was not convinced!

 

Grey Hair

It’s been quite a while now since I discovered my first grey hair. This is a short poem about that traumatic experience:

GOING GREY

It was quite a shock I must say,

When I looked in the mirror yesterday,

I brushed my hands through my hair,

As I do everyday, without a care,

It was then I saw, to my dismay,

An indication of ensuing decay,

And I thought to myself, this isn’t fair,

As I stared with disbelief at the hair,

If I were forty, I would not make a fuss,

But I’m only twenty so I feel I must!

Alas, I put it down to fate,

Twenty years old and going grey!

The Plateau

This week I have decided to post the start of a story that I have not yet finished . It is written in the third person and it describes an experience I had out in Norway earlier in the year. Please do not hesitate to let me know what you think.

The wind races across the plateau, sculpting elaborate patterns in the cold hard snow. He sits atop the small hill next to the hut, his head gazing upwards as he marvels at the magnificent night sky. The candles light up the hut windows from within as if they were beautiful emeralds amidst a vast sea of white, and his mind is occupied by the constellations and the people who named them. At this moment he is utterly at peace with the world.

Eventually he can withstand the cold no longer and he retreats to the welcoming sound of laughter and the warmth of the wood burner. He does so with the memory of an awe-inspiring sunset over a breath-taking landscape, it’s a memory that will stay with him for the rest of his life.

Writing

I don’t and never have professed to being a good writer and nor am I a particularly avid reader; that is not to say I don’t enjoy either of them however, I do, it’s just that I have never really found the time to devote to becoming a better writer. The good news is that all of this looks set to change. On my degree course at the University of Cumbria we have just started a module called ‘Adventure Travel Writing’ which has already proven to be very interesting and has led me to realise how much of an art writing, or at least good writing, can be.

Each week we are given writing exercises to carry out in order to get us thinking about different literary techniques and effects. I plan to publish these exercises every week on my blog so as to share my writing and to give you (and me) a chance to track my progression from the naive novice that I am now to the world renowned, best-selling author that I am inevitably going to become (see what I mean about naive!).

Any comments would be greatly appreciated and I hope you enjoy my writing.

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