Apologising to my daughter this evening about her having inherited my over-active imagination reminded me of something that happened a couple of years ago whilst on a trip into the Fannaichs. I wrote about it on UKC and just found it. So here, for memory's sake...
"
Has your imagination ever got the better of you?I mean, you are a normally quite practical minded sort of person, the odd daydream here and there but feet planted firmly on the ground - then bam - out of nowhere something creeps into your head and within nano seconds you are in the middle of a full blown crisis?
I had such an experience on Saturday night. Blah blah blah up in the hills about 2000ft in the wind and rain. A bottle of whisky has been shared with freinds in the tent and the laughter is dying to sleepy yawns. You settle down in the sleeping bag and lay there listening to your tentmates breathing and the howling gale trying to rip you from the mountainside. Gradually your thoughts turn to more pleasant affairs and within mintes you are slumbering, dreaming the dreams of the just. And pished.
Slowly, around 5am while it is still pitch black outside you are plucked from sleep by a strange and unusual noise. Your weary brain tries to analyse the sound, running automatically through the usual lists of suspects - wind tugging at the guy ropes, a biscuit wrapper being thrown around in the draught, wee beasties scurrying about looking for a long forgotten peice of your bedtime rowie..of course you will soon hit upon the fitting explanation and drift off once again..
But no, it sounds like none of these and a little more awake now you methodically begin to make sense of the disturbance....place the sounds first..is it inside or outside? Is it rubbing against the outer or inner? To the left of your head or the right? Is it moving or staying quite, quite still? How large does it sound? Could it be the pair of sodden trousers you left hanging up inside rusting against the front 'door'? Oh its maybe the map left out with route clearly marked being ruffled by the wind blowing in under the outer.
No its none of these.
The noise gets louder. A deep moaning, almost grunt. A definite sound of snuffling. A rising panic begins. Your throat tightens and your arse clenches. Stop being so f*cking stupid. Its Scotland. Its 2006. You are a grown adult. Its most likely the deer you saw high up on the crags last night come down for a nosey. Or one fell and is injured.
Or chased over the edge.
By?
Oh JESUS F*CKING CHRIST ALMIGHTY its Dog Soldiers all over again!!!!! WEREWOLVES!
In the time it takes you to kiss your ass goodbye and draw up the sleeping bag around your head (because thats gonna protect you right?)the seemingly innocent rustlings of a timorous wee beastie have turned into the bare toothed, snarling, mad eyed attempt on your life by some evil creature from the pits of hell. You frantically punch your tentmates back and wake him from his peaceful sleep
"What the f is it now?"
"Theres something trying to get into the tent" you whisper
He turns onto his back and you know he is listening. The noise stops and for one glorious second you are assured safety. He has obviously frightened them off with his mere alertness.
Rustle
"What the f*ck is THAT?" he says fumbling for the headtorch and once again you are plunged into near suicidal fear. You begin to run a mental risk assessment. Would it be safer to lie here and hope they go away or eat your mates in the tent next door? Or make a run for it down the mountain and back to the car. Would you make it? How fast can a werewolf run? Where are the keys? How fast can I do 4 miles in - over boggy ground? The tent is suddenly illuminated by your tentmates torch and you lie there looking at each other and listening very, very carefuly. The rain and wind even calm their incessant attacks just so you can listen to your last, final terrorfilled moments on this planet.
ziiiiiiiiiiiiiip
Oh here we go. Its like that poor couple that got eaten alive at the start. I'm going to die being tugged in half and have my head squashed between the jaws of a monster. I'll still be alive. Oh I pray for a quick death. Please. Why why WHY didn't I take the rifle! it might have frightened them off.
Then it is gone. Absolutely still. Nothing. You lay frozen in your tent, too afraid to move. The slightest breath could start off the vicious and deadly attack you fear. But still nothing. Silence. After a few minutes you being to rationalise. Ah they have been frightened off. Maybe the sun is rising. It does look a little lighter out there. Do werewolves hate the light or is that vampires? Hey, it can't have been Werewolves! Its not even a full bloody moon!.. You chuckle at your own stupidity and drift off to sleep.
In the morning you sheepishly stick your head out the tent and before the midgies can eat your face you have recounted the 'funny tale' with a fair pinch of self depreciation mixed with bravado to your mates in the next tent. The pisstaking and laughter you expect and crave for that sense of calm it instills never appears as their faces drop and they point to the decidedly canine footprints in the mud.
Day Two began quite well actually. Got up, dressed straight into running gear, packed son off to nursery, threw ipod about for being a git and deleting all my tracks for no reason at all, reloaded ipod and set off in a gale force south westerly on my usual 5k route.
