Lost Worlds

There is not much merit in being an isolationist. Stepping back from the world is a bit of an abnegation, almost an abandonment, of one’s duties. To be engaged with people is, I feel, important and, let’s face it, one of life’s great pleasures. But sometimes simply stepping away, moving aside to the bank-clad stiller pools of the stream is an important way of gaining a different perspective. I love high up places, removed a smidge from the madding crowd.

My heart was singing, my being was at peace. I had parked by my old grandfather’s house in Viewfield Street in the town of Nairn. I walked a few steps, found a bench in a park and ate my lunch. I had no idea where I was going to drive next but I knew that I would head out on the Aberdeen road. It would take a couple of hours to get to that city but I also knew, in my heart of hearts, that I would not go the whole way. So I did not need to check my face in the mirror, I knew the smile was there. The sun shone, the road was straight and not overly busy. I pushed along through places that held morsels of my past, titbits of memory. My movement was joyous and aimless. The aim came upon me suddenly. I had not expected the signpost but I knew immediately that I had to turn right.

I have always been drawn towards Tomintoul.  I visited there very briefly with my brother, George, in 2015. I had never stayed there. It sits on the edge of the Cairngorm National Park. It is almost a one street village. It has ‘The Whisky Castle’ which sells every whisky known including ‘Tomintoul’. It has a café in an old firehall, a Co-op overlooking the village square along with a museum and a couple of inns. I know how busy such places can be in the summer so I did not think for one moment that there would be a room to spare in any of the local hotels.

The road wound its way upwards through countryside that was treed and heathered and timeless and gentle. As I climbed I felt so much of care and responsibility lift with each foot. I crossed ancient bridges, pulled into narrow passing places and eventually found myself in the second highest village in Scotland, Tomintoul. I parked and unfolded my stiffness from the driver’s seat and eased my creaking way around the village square. I spotted the Richmond Hotel. I approached it with the knowledge that certainly there would be no rooms available; that a coach party would be expected; that returning fishermen would be there for their annual holiday; that I would have to leave and find somewhere else.

Mine host, Martin, was serving in the public bar. Did he have a room for the night? Surprise, surprise he did. Nothing ventured I asked did he have a room for three nights? Yes he did! So there I was, suddenly ecstatic, suddenly energised and suddenly lodged. The room’s floor creaked. There was advice about how to handle the toilet, sink and shower; it was hoped that I would understand that the hotel was old and, therefore, quirky. I hoped that the hotel understood that I was old and, therefore, quirky. In went my luggage and out I went to explore on foot. I was drawn to the sound of children’s laughter and came upon a school playground where a teacher had organised a sort of game of mass tennis. Adults and children alike were having a lot of fun. I walked a little further and then I was looking out over green fields with the low rounded hills of the Cairngorm National Park in the near distance. I had no map with me but I did stumble upon information about a pathway up through Glen Avon. I resolved to have a wee keek the following day.

After I had eaten the redundant, finger-twiddling, touting-for- business heart surgeon’s dream breakfast the following morning, I drove along the “B” road at the end of which was a dusty, small car park. Water and snacks, sunglasses and notebook on my back I headed off up a farm track to Queen Victoria’s Viewpoint. A short 50 yard climb revealed an excellent albeit hardly spectacular view.(It was a hoax, I couldn’t see her!) I was soon down from it and decided to head on up the track with no particular aim, certainly no goal other than to be out in a beautiful place on an azure day. I reminded myself that I had an arthritic limp and I was 71 years old and that at some time I would have to retrace my steps. But it was early, no indication of a dramatic change of weather, no sign that the path would require anything superhuman.

The River Avon (pronounced ‘Aaan’) accompanied me all of the way up the glen. Sometimes the valley narrowed, other times it widened, at points there were stands of silver birch quivering in a gentle breeze. The trees faded and the heather took over. I stumbled on a magnificent farmhouse where three men were pulling out in farm vehicles. They waved me a friendly greeting. I walked over a cattle grid into a green pasture that ran down to the river. Curious cows, chewed their cuds ruminating on the interloper, although my right knee told me I was hardly loping. The road became a dusty track. I saw nobody. Then out of the blue appeared mountain bikers. They signalled from behind, they waved, they greeted, they were gone. I saw no walkers that day. The path wended uphill and down dale, meandered round corners, sauntered its way forward. I was coming close to making a decision about when to turn back. Eventually I checked my watch and my distance, slid down a sandy bank, perched on a clump of heather and watched the river trickle beneath my feet. I drank some, ate some, photographed some and was awestruck some with my surroundings. The low brown hills, I knew, concealed the 4000 foot jagged ruggedness of the Cairngorm Massif. I knew that it would be foolhardy to continue so resolved to spend as much time as possible languishing in the beauty of the place before heading back the way I had come.

https://jimmytolmieauthor.com/236da0c6-8497-4a29-96eb-b06acb1476df-2/

Dear Friends, I have never been the person who sets out to conquer that peak, to yomp that 20 miles afore sundown. If I am honest I have never really hiked, I have always really sauntered, gently ambled. The desire to see around the next corner, take in the view from the next top has always lost out to the need to enjoy the moment, to appreciate what is rather than what might be. So when I turned back on that path the scenes were new because they were a reversal. The perspective gave off new pictures, novel vignettes. It was as though I had not walked this way before. All too soon I was back at my car. I had covered about 10 miles.

Back in the public bar of the Richmond Hotel I was thirsty. I tried a beer called ‘Spey’s Cadet’, purely because I liked the clever little play on words. It was good. I had a second. I resolved not to sit facing the TV so had my back to it although I could hear it and see it in the mirror opposite my table, so I suppose I was watching. But my spaced out staring concerned the bartender who asked if I was OK. I wanted to say that I was an apprentice Space Cadet but the double play on words punted too far, so I nodded acquiescence and forced a grin, a likely ghastly ‘grin’-ace. Ha! But really I was thinking about my walk that day and what a lucky man I was. An older couple on the next table stood up and talked to me so I offered them a seat which they took. They lived in Perth and were heading up to Nairn for an holiday. I really took to them and enjoyed an excellent half an hour in conversation. Indeed at breakfast the following morning I was delighted to find that they had ordered my books.

Where, Dear Reader, am I going with this story? Well, 20 years ago I would have been unable to restrain my enthusiasm for what has turned out to be one of the best hikes of my long life. I would have animatedly told my story, detailed every step up this beautiful glen. But I don’t remember mentioning it to this lovely couple. Why? Well, I hope that I have learnt that my outstanding experiences are really only outstanding to me. I have come to terms with the fact that most of my stories should remain untold. They are mine to guard jealously; mine to hold close to my heart; mine to recall as a recollection in tranquillity. They are mine to remain unsaid. But, Dear Friends, that does not mean they have to remain unwritten. No, no, no! Writing them is so much more to me because it demands so much less of you, Dear Reader. You do not have to pretend polite listening; you do not have to maintain eye contact; to work hard on a façade of interest. No, Dear Friend, you can avoid reading this, you can click away from it and I will never know. You will never cause offence because of a glazed eye, an obvious glance at your watch, a sudden time-to-go moment ‘cos you have to check in with Grandma, take the dog for a walk, zoom with your daughter in Australia. You can sacrifice the pretence with one click of your mouse and I will be none the wiser.

My Glen Avon experience was a solitary one in a very crowded island. It was a balm to my soul. My chance encounter with total strangers in a public bar was a social one. It was a balm to my being. Aloneness is not loneliness but for so much of our lives, Dear Friends, it is a lost world. I was so happy to find it again near the village of Tomintoul.

‘In order to understand the world, one has to turn away from it on occasion.” Albert Camus.

Thanks for reading.