Monday 18 January 2021

On being a visitor in the countryside

Today I was reminded of a couple of articles I'd posted long, long ago on a long-defunct website; and having found that I'd (also long ago) rescued them to my computer, though I'd re-post them here. These were written in 1999... At that time I was living in Canada, but took an extended 'holiday' back home. So, there are two stories, very different from each other, both from my 'pilgrimage' to the Kilmartin valley in Argyll.

First, the 'Dog Story'!

This is what the title 'On being a visitor in the countryside' belongs to.

I had an interesting trip to the UK this month (July 1999). However, this item is about the most ridiculous occurrence that I met. It intersected with my life in strange ways, being a factor impelling me into one of the most intense and powerful experiences I've had. But that's another story. Here is the ridiculous part, occasioned apparently by someone else's inability to exercise courtesy, or read signs.

The Kilmartin Glen, in Argyll, is sheep and cattle country. Beautiful, lush, grazing. Sheep country brings with it some rules, particularly where it's also a tourist area where people go to see 'the monuments', and usually spend about 5 minutes per attraction as they whiz round. One rule is written on numerous signs: keep the dog on a very short leash.

Loose dogs in sheep country are bad news, especially when lambs are young. Even the best, well-mannered, thoroughly polite and charming city-bred dog is likely to react to sheep and lambs: either they're for herding, they're for play, or they're prey. Any of these reactions, for the sheep and the farmers, is really bad news.

On my last day in Kilmartin, having spent the day on foot on back roads and track, looking at the very substantial amount of interesting material that was to be found, I headed back for the environs of Kilmartin itself, the vicinity of the Temple Wood circles. I planned to visit the strange 'X' formation, the Nether Largie Standing Stones, across the side road from Temple Wood, and nearby the chambered cairn at Nether Largie South. I thought of doing some meditation at the stones. The chambered cairn was calling to me, had been calling since I arrived in the glen, but at this time I was resisting. I got a lift from Kilmartin to the Temple Wood turn-off, walked up the side road, went through the gate to the little lane between fields that led to the stone 'X', and once more read the notices: keep dogs on a short leash; this is sheep country. Along the lane, through another gate, and here was the stone formation. I walked around, camera handy, and then...

There was a dog. Bounding up to me, not sure whether to be friendly. A large, golden dog. (I'm not good at dog breeds, but it was lovely. Golden retriever?) 

At first I was merely irritated: can't the owners read? This isn't a local dog. Besides, how can I sit by the stones and meditate with a dog bouncing around? As the dog bounded closer, I took a deep breath and -- how do I explain this? -- became my fylgia. The dog stopped short, looked at me, whined slightly, and acted submissive. Fine, except that I had instantly become its pack leader. It then followed me, rather subdued and well behaved now, and keeping a little distance even when it got in the way, as I went around the stones, took my photos, gave up on the meditation plan, and wondered where the hel these owners were. Then the impact of the signs kicked in. This was a loose dog in sheep country. I could see no people. There did seem to be a car, down by the main road, down another little lane like the one I'd entered by, but no signs of people there.

So, OK, the responsibility for this dog was now on me. There was a farmhouse nearly, on the side-road that I'd come in from, opposite the little path to the chambered cairn. I started heading for there, managing on the way to shut the dog in the lane, where I could continue to see it as I headed for the farmhouse. Just before I reached the gate, a young man came out of it on a bicycle, I waved and he waved and stopped.

'Hello,' said I. 'I was down by the stones -- there's a loose dog there, and I can't find the owners. I was coming to let someone know.'

'A dog.' He said. (This wasn't a question.)

'A dog,' said I. 'And no sign of anyone. It's in the lane just now, I shut it in.'

'Right,' he said, 'Thanks!' and headed off on his bike. I in turn headed for the chambered cairn, and stood by it, watching the show.

He stopped at the lane, opened the gate and took firm hold of the dog's collar. At this point, some people finally materialised from the other direction: the owners, at last. He took the dog to them, and I could see the gestures even if I couldn't hear the words, pointing to the signs, pointing to the sheep. People and dog headed off.

I took some photographs of the outside of the cairn, put away the camera, stood a few minutes letting myself become one with the surroundings, the scenery, the landscape: then took a deep breath, and clambered down into the tomb...


Copyright © J Blain, 1999.
All rights reserved.


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