I have a large scar on my right arm. It was not caused by an operation nor by receiving a slash from one of those peculiar people you read about who go up town on a Saturday night with a Samurai sword stuffed down their trousers.
Like most decent ratepayers, I do not go up town on a Saturday night and, even if I did, would tend to be suspicious of any hooligan – and I can always spot them by their phrenological features – walking with a limp.
No, I got my scar by taking leave off my senses temporarily and believing I was Tarzan of yonder apes. A cursory look at my birth certificate reveals that I am not Tarzan but Robert O’Blenkinsop Yum-Yum McNeil. Further proof is my lack of a loin cloth. I asked at Markies but they do not stock them.
The Tarzan incident occurred in the woods next to The Cabin in the leafier part of Skye. I climbed up a tree and made the tactical error of falling out of it in the darkness. A branch must have scraped my arm as I plummeted towards terra firma. And I can confirma that it is firma. Why was I in the woods at night? Because that’s what characters in The Lord of the Rings do, and I live my life according to their principles.
I was just there to find out if I would be frightened. Woods can be scary places at the best of times. They’re a bit of an unknown to us. Most upstanding citizens don’t venture into a wood from one year to the next, as there tend to be few shops and cinemas.
In the woods, you see trees that take on human shape, with peculiar faces an’ all. The large stones in our ancient wood are, of course, trolls that turned to stone after being caught by the dawn light.
But I saw also a tree that looked like a troll. It was upturned, and its huge root system gave it a monstrous aspect, which was not helped by the fact that there was a dead sheep at its maw (in the mouth not the motherly sense). I felt for the sheep, for it had obviously gone there to die, perhaps after it had fallen out of a tree.
Cows wander into the woods from time to time, doing large poos hither and yon, and I have heard deer but never yet caught sight of them. There could well be ghosts too. On the foreshore by the woods stand several deserted stone houses, former domiciles of folk who cleared off to Canada or America. Vessels used to leave from the pier nearby.
The people who left must have missed the woods, mountains and sea though, if they did opt for Canada, doubtless they found something not too dissimilar. Such a shame, though, to have to up sticks to a country far away that at least did not have (and still has) such a mad land ownership system.
However, even a Scottish landowner would not be so mad as to blunder up – and blunder back doon rather more rapidly – a tree in the darkness. I have learned my lesson, though. In future, I shall only enter the woods during daylight hours and accompanied by an adult.