Where were you?

 It was the end of the school year. Peter and his fellow RAF cadets had been driven from their boarding school in Somerset to an air force base in the North-East of England called RAF Consett. The ancient RAF uniform felt heavy and rough on his skin, itchy at important parts of his anatomy. The 17 year old reflected that nothing was more likely to send a soldier into battle than the continuous itch of rough sheep’s wool on one’s skin. Ever the pessimist he was betting with himself that the camp would have nylon sheets which would add to his discomfort. He shivered as he remembered catching a toe nail on the edge of such a sheet at a friend’s house, fingernails scraping down a blackboard. Still he was looking forward to the end of the camp because Squadron Leader McEwan-Mason had agreed to sign a travel warrant for him and put him on a train from Newcastle to Edinburgh. He had his bike packed with tent and sleeping bag and from Edinburgh he was going to cycle north to the Highlands, wild camping on the way.

After shooting rifles, being forced to make a nerve wracking speech to his fellow cadets, having a wonderful day’s hiking adventure in the Northumberland hills, the day came for the camp to break up. The Squadron Leader kindly drove him and his bike to the station and waited in line for his warrant to travel. It was strange to see this leadership icon in a queue with the rest of humanity. Such was the awe in which we held such a man that the idea of him waiting patiently in line seemed out of place. Peter was embarrassed that he was doing this on his behalf. His teacher and mentor smiled at him, amused at his discomfiture.

“There you are. Be safe, Enjoy your holiday.”

Peter was relieved to be able to get away and make his own way to the ticket barrier, pushing his bike ahead of him. Bike stored safely in the baggage carriage, he found a window seat and settled in to enjoy the stunning views of the North Sea coast while the train made its way over the border and onwards to Scotland’s capital city. The day was bright and blue. A brisk breeze ruffled the surface of the water. Seagulls swooped and dived, birds on the wing. The occasional trawler buffeted its way to and from. Peter reflected that if the train arrived on time there would still be enough hours in the day to put himself some distance north of Edinburgh.

Two days later, Peter was biking up the gradient of the A9 between Dunkeld and the village of Dalwhinnie. The wind and hill were against him. He sweated heavily, his legs were aching, his breathing was heavy. In the distance he could see ominous black clouds and knew that he was in for a soaking. Always on his left were the railway tracks. At weak moments when a train rattled its way northwards beside him he wished he was nestled in its warmth and comfort but then he looked back to the road and forwards and pushed his legs down. His bike crept snail-like, gust-buffeted upwards.

Still plenty of hours of daylight left but he spotted a copse of deciduous trees between the road and the tracks. On a whim he stopped, gave the growth a quick glance, grabbed his bike and man-handled it through the sparse undergrowth and set up his tent. The midges were soon upon him so he had no option but to zip up as quickly as possible. It was still early when he lay back in his sleeping bag and opened his book. The next day the clouds had cleared, the early morning dew, the wet from the rain storm only encouraged the onset of the flies. He scoffed a quick bite and was on the road. The wind was still against him but he was resolved to get to Dalwhinnie where he knew the road would be less uphill and the wind would likely be behind him. It was some hours later when he pedalled into the village with its petrol station and distillery to the north of the community. The café signalled “Open” so in he went.

“Windy out,” he commented to the waitress.

“We like it.”

 Cups of tea and an immense fry up, soon replete, soon refreshed, soon back on his bike. Following wind in his sails, hill in his favour, he flew through the villages of Newton More, Kingussie, Kincraig and on into the mountain sports village of Aviemore. Turning right before the village, he found his way to a camp site he knew well in the hamlet of Rothiemurchus near the Coylumbridge Hotel.

Peter had no radio, no cell phones existed at the time, no such thing as a lap-top or an i-pad. He set up his tent and walked back to Aviemore for a visit. The village was crowded with visitors. There was an air of excitement about them all, there was also a strange sense of awe. Peter caught snatches of conversation. He was intrigued. He decided to buy a newspaper. The headline explained it all. He glanced at it briefly but resolved not to immerse himself fully until he had returned to his tent. He walked the short distance over the bridge on the River Spey, found his way back , made himself comfortable and opened the newspaper. The headlines lead to a dramatic several page spread. Peter greedily read and re-read, gobbled every word, gawked at every picture. He could touch the awe and amazement within, he shivered with disbelief, felt his mouth open loosely, his gab did gape. After a time he lay back and thought about what he had read. The date was July 21^st, 1969.

I have been back to this wonderful little camp site many times since. It is the beginning of the Lairig Ghru footpath which, over the course of a long day’s trudge, will take a fit walker out of gentle heather-clad moorland. There Scots Pines, stunning remnants of the old Caledonian Forest, interrupt the landscape. After a while the hiker will begin to climb, the vegetation becomes more sparse, eventually the path becomes rocky and one is ascending, passed the ruins of the Sinclair Bothy,  to the pools of Dee where the River Dee begins its journey to Aberdeen on the coast on the eastern side. At this point the mountains run straight upwards either side of the path ominous in their dark, brooding enormity. I have made this trek several times but, on occasions, weather permitting, have been happy to venture only a short distance, find a bank of heather near the burn, take in the soft sound of trickling water, lean against a tree and read my book. And always, always, Dear Reader, my thoughts will turn back to that 17 year old callow youth, eating fudge in his tent and rereading several times the incredible story of Neil Armstrong being the first human being to set foot on the moon on July 20^th, 1969.

So, Dear Reader, I am writing this to remind myself and to reassure you and me that the News is not always bad, that sometimes amid all the tragedy, the pestilence, the famine, the war, sometimes the four horsemen of the Apocalypse do take an holiday. Then we gather, we talk, we smile, we discuss, we feel uplifted, we raise a glass, throw our hands in the air, we smile. Or, my friends, we lie in our tent munching fudge and think that if humankind can put a man on the moon, then surely to goodness Peter James Davidson can put up with the paltry adversity of weather and slog sturdily over the Slochd Summit followed with that last wee hop down to Inverness on his bike  the next day.  

Thanks for reading.