On silence

The horizon was black and gold, but not for long. The sun was flowing behind the mountains like sand in an hourglass, fast enough for the movement to be visible. It struck me that our sun must always cross the sky with such speed, but without a reference point we fail to notice it. Time can be like that too.

There were two islands in the loch – tiny forests arising from a watery looking glass that stretched away, beyond the bow, further than I could see. I considered the more distant island, but the wise outdoorsman does not choose to make camp in the dark.

A few strokes of the paddle and I was beaching the canoe on the shore, leaving bright smears of green plastic hull on the jagged schist. I rubbed them off with the back of my knife, uncertain if this was Leave-No-Trace ethics, or just Obsessional Compulsive Disorder. If I start picking up the bullets when deer stalking, I’ll get professional help.

Rigging the tarp and setting a pail of loch water to boil took a few minutes, and I sat on a heathery stool, on an unnamed island, in Loch Laidon, surrounded by Rannoch Moor. Rannoch Moor, for those who don’t know it, is big – at least by Scottish standards. Canadians might not think so.

And I listened to the silence. It was, after all, what I had come for.






City life does not lend itself to contemplation. That's one reason, I live in the country. But here too, it can be hard to escape man made noise. If it's not distant traffic, it's 50 hertz mains hum from electrical installations.


Even in our wild country, it can be hard to get away from the sight and sound of civilisation. The Peak District National Park of northern England is a gem; beautiful by anyone's standards. There, two thousand feet above sea level, lies the Kinder plateau, which despite the modest elevation is still serious mountain country, as the local rescue team can testify. And on the edge of the plateau is a very curious phenomenon - the Kinder Downfall. It's a waterfall, but when the wind blows the right way air is funnelled up the ravine, blowing clouds of spray into the air. It's the nearest thing to a geysir this side of Reykjavik.


It is said that you can see the spray clouds of the Kinder Downfall from Stockport, several miles to the north. This is undoubtedly a good thing, but the corollary is not: you can also see Stockport from the Kinder Downfall.


There is value in protecting any wild land, whatever it's size. But to be truly wild, it needs to be out of sight and earshot of civilisation. That means protecting large areas.