Incident at the Loch E-Book

Geoffrey Peyton

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Part one of a two week break in Ayrshire and Cumbria during a warm May in 1991. In this first part I hike from Ayr to Stranraer, sleeping in various wooded locations that are full of natural wildlife and magnificent lochs. Along the way I encounter close calls with the natural inhabitants, not to mention a couple of women who more than catch my eye. I ask the reader to excuse any grammatical hiccups, as I am just trying to tell a story. Thanks.

Leseprobe

Geoffrey Peyton

Incident at the Loch

A Northern Journey (part one)

Thanks to Jane and Christina who were lovely girls that played a great part in this story. And thanks to all the wonderful people out there who insist that I continue to write these journals, especially to Ken Brown, Michelle Hutchinson, Leah Sheldon, Wibbly-wobbly Dave, and the rest of you that I have not mentioned. Thanks a great deal.BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Incident at theLoch

I remember taking a short cut alone in some woodland area in the Black Country when I was an innocent nine-year-old boy. Because of the recent abduction of another nine-year-old lad from a woodland area at nearby Wednesbury, it was advised that children should be vigilant when alone in such seldom inhabited areas. It was also apprised that you do not enter the woods alone, especially during the evening. But the night before, I had seen the ultimate scary movie by Dennis Wheatley, ‘The Devil Rides Out. I was living with my grandmother at the time who was very strict when it came to children stopping up after 8.00pm. But when she had to go into hospital for a minor operation I was allowed to delay my bedtime for a few more hours, thanks to my gran’s Irish partner, whom I was to call Uncle Pete. Uncle Pete began to feel tired at around 10.00pm, but he let me stay up for another hour on my own, seeing as it was a Friday.

“Make sure yer turn everytink off Paddy. Dya hear me?”

“I do Uncle Pete.”

“Good on ya Paddy.”

It took me a few years to fathom out why he kept persisting in calling me Paddy. In all the five years that I lived with my gran and Uncle Pete, not once did he ever call me Geoff or Geoffrey, but that’s another story.

When Uncle Pete had finally hit the slumber I knew that I could stay up as long as I liked, because once he was asleep it was almost impossible to wake him up. I was also aware that a very frightening movie was on that evening, as all the kids at school were talking about it, and of course that was the aforementioned movie ‘The Devil Rides Out.

There is a certain part in that movie that scared the living crap out of me and still puts one up me if I see the movie now. I can still vividly recall the Ghost of Mendes, or the Devil, appearing in the forest when being worshipped by a number of theistic Satanists. There was also a scene where the Devil is chasing whoever down a dark country lane. From that day on I have had this fascination with woodlands and forests, and I have to say that I actually get a kick out of being scared of being alone in the woods. Indeed, during my latter years, I have regularly camped out on my own in the middle of heaven knows where. And do I get scared? You bet ya.

The young boy, incidentally, who went missing in Wednesbury, was found murdered on Cannock Chase twelve hours after he had been reported missing. He had been picked up by his eventual killer 400 yards from his home before being transported seventeen miles to his eventual death. The murderer, who was only twenty years old, was caught within 24 hours and naturally got life. That crime took place in November 1970, and the killer was released sometime in 1982. Twelve years for murder seems pretty short for such a cruel crime. But that’s the sort of shit the system sometimes throws at you when you least expect it.

That woodland area where I used to hide out for so many hours in Oldbury has since made way for homes. There is very little in the way of forest left in the Black Country anymore, except for Cannock Chase. Even so, the Black Country will always be in my heart, because that is where I grew up as a youngster.

When I was twelve years old, my Nan sent me away to Weston-Super-Mare for a week with my school. I never expected the hostel in which we stayed in to be set in the centre of umpteen acres of natural woodland. This was right down my street, and I wandered in and about those woods every evening. On one occasion I got a bit carried away and forgot that the darkness was setting in very quickly. Once again I was petrified, yet I was absolutely loving the experience. But real worry began to set in when it occurred to me that I may not be able to find my way out in the dark. The adrenalin sensation had by now worn off because I would be reported missing and the cops will be out in force looking for me. Just when I thought that I had made it out before it was pitch black, I realised that I had exited the forest on the northern side instead of the south. Instead of taking that route out of the forest and then take the main road around to the hostel, I stupidly ran back in the woods and ran with incredible speed due south. My eyesight had adapted reasonably well to the darkness, and within five minutes’ I had made my way out. Once I knew that I was outside and safe, a voice from the bottom of a hill kept on shouting “Peyton. Geoffrey Peyton, can you hear me?”

I knew that someone would be looking for me and so I quickly replied to the calling out of my name.

“I’m here and I’m okay.”

I was grounded from entering the woods ever again by the bastard who was looking after us. But once he was out of sight I still went back into the woods, just so I can be scared once more.

Although my love for the countryside was apparent from when I was a young lad, I didn’t actually realise just how much I adored the pastime of venturing into them at almost every opportunity. Not until I left my partner Julie in 1990 did I find out that actually living in the wild could be so peaceful and free from the disturbing obstacles that you get when living with (and in) the rat race of a dysfunctional urban world. I even left my children behind momentarily that year, just to see if I could survive for a few months without the worries that a metropolitan life provides. From April of that year until early December I lived the life of a nomad with a few other wayfarers that I happened to bump into once I alighted a coach at Clacton, Essex. I lived permanently outdoors for almost nine months, covering a cool spring, a hot summer, and a quite depressing autumn. I found that experience the most enjoyable time of my life. I found the greatest love of my life with a girl named Becky. But like so many of the trails that I leave behind, they all disappeared into my own personal history of disappointments. Because that year brought so much adventure to my life I decided to write two books about that escapade (‘The Hollow by the Mere - and ‘The Loneliest Hobo). Respectively, they detail my life on the run from the law with Becky, and then the lonely 250 mile walk that I had to make from St Ives in Cornwall to Birmingham.

Once I got back to Birmingham at the end of that incredible journey, and after I got myself back in order with having to cope with an industrial shithole again, I began to save the loot that I was earning to repeat that journey once again, but there was no going back down south this time. This time I was to venture to the northern borders of Scotland and Cumbria for two weeks, enjoying a wonderful spring venture in Dumfries, Ayrshire, and finally the Lakes. 

I threw a metaphorical dart at the map of Britain and it landed towards the west coast of Scotland. A closer inspection revealed the towns of Ayr, Kilmarnock, Prestwick, and over the Firth of Clyde was the Isle of Arran. Scratching my head with uncertainty, because I had already been to Ayrshire about twelve years before, I wandered if I should throw another one of those metaphorical darts and hope for somewhere closer to home. But when I went to Ayr in 1979, it was to see a football match, and it was during a freezing winter. It was early May now, but the weather forecast for the foreseeable future was pretty warm for the time of the year. I had done pretty well on the savings front, and had at least £600 in my pocket. The plan was to take the cheapest train route into Kilmarnock, thus avoiding the more expensive line via Glasgow. Although the Kilmarnock train would take nearly four hours longer, because it stops at every available stop on the way, plus I will have to change trains twice, this way I would save a massive £20, and in 1991, that was a lot of money. 

I had a brand new backpack, new tent, new sleeping bag, and my faithful calor stove that had seen me through last summer and autumn (I still have it today, as it has sentimental value). It was unlikely that I would experience anything like I did last year, as I’m strictly here for two weeks only. I will sleep free, rough and in the wild with the beasts that roam the countryside.

It was Monday 13th May 1991, and I was all ready to leave my flat in Northfield for a couple of week’s bliss. I checked umpteen times to make sure that I had everything that I would need for my trip up to Scotland. My radio was on, and the news headlines mentioned something about Winnie Mandela being sentenced to six years for kidnapping, but I didn’t care. I turned it off and placed it in my backpack, along with the required batteries that it would most likely need during my voyage. I was advised by a few of my worried friends of the dangers of sleeping rough, especially in Scotland.

“Why should I be scared of sleeping rough in Scotland?” I asked my buddy Alan.

He shrugged his shoulders, clearly realising that he had no idea that I was probably going to rough it in the safest part of Britain.

“I dunno. You know what they’ve like up there.”

I didn’t know that they were any different to English people to be honest, but I let him have his say.

A few other pointless words of advice from other worried souls and I was off. You see, these associates of mine didn’t realise that I had spent three parts of last year living in forests and other unforced recreational areas of the United Kingdom, and not once was I hassled by any murderers or the likes. But these caring people will be out of my life for a while, so thank goodness for that.